


Arrival of the birds

by chiara_scuro



Series: Arrival of the birds [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Cottagecore? Not really but you know they live in a village and appreciate nature, Domestic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Normal! AU, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, and they were ROOMMATES, baz works in an office but only in the first chapter, bird facts that nobody asked for, can you tell this is my first work here idk how to write tags, ebb is in this one, i have a hc that Simon is into ornithology and you'll have to pry that from my cold dead hands, the alternative title for this fic would be simon and baz dismantle capitalism, they drink alcohol at some point just putting it out there, this is mostly Baz's POV but we get some Simon as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 51,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiara_scuro/pseuds/chiara_scuro
Summary: Baz Pitch is set to take over Grimm's Real Estates one day - but he's not even sure if that's what he wants to do in life. Before he can decide, however, his Father falls in a dispute with Watford Institute for the Conservation of Nature over building plans in a protected area. As the heir of the company, Baz gets dragged into the fight, but he finds himself siding more with the conservation ecologist Simon Snow rather than with his Father.This is a story about capitalist scum, ridiculously fit ornithologists and saving the Mummer's moor.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Arrival of the birds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035630
Comments: 164
Kudos: 262





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello this is my first fic here! I hope you like it!  
> also if anyone wants to beta for this fic, please do! I don't know anyone around here so I literally came up with this whole AU just to find a beta  
> I'll try to update as often as possible! 
> 
> my tumblr: vampire-named-gampire  
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire

BAZ

“I still don’t understand why I have to be there,” I say to my Father. “It’s really not my area.”

“You have to be there because one day you’ll take over the company and you have to be familiar with how things work in every department, not just this one,” my Father starts. I wince – I don’t really want to think about taking over my Father’s company. I don’t really _want_ his company, but it’s not like I have a say in any of these things. Just like I don’t have a say in participating in this meeting. To think I could be at home right now, writing my dissertation…

“The environmentalists are our biggest issue in that department and I’d like you to see how we handle cases like these.”

“Yeah, alright,” I nod. “I’ll be there.” I’ll hate every second of it but I’ll be there.

“That’s my boy,” my Father says, patting my shoulder and I wince again. Surely, now that he’s decided to ignore my queerness, our relationship has improved a lot, but it’s still weird when he’s being physically affectionate. Part of me wonders if he’s only doing this whole thing because he desperately needs an heir to the company. Part of me wonders if I’m letting him only because I know how desperate he is. “Alright, now get back to work. I’ll see you at three.”

I watch him walk away. He doesn’t even make it ten meters before he’s approached by another intern, wanting his approval for something. My Father just shrugs him off. He doesn’t really pay much attention to interns, other than me, of course. Nepotism at its finest. I sigh and get back to the stack of papers waiting on my desk.

I have actually been enjoying this internship. It’s a good learning experience and I’ve taken away so much that has helped me with my dissertation. My Father says once I get my PhD, I could become the head of this department, but I think that’s a bit hasty. And I’m not exactly sure if that’s what I want to do in life.

I chew through the papers and then go to lunch with the other interns and it’s boring. I just about want to set myself on fire as Marcus launches himself into yet another one of his golfing stories. I mean, you’re twenty-three, why do you already have _so many_ golfing stories? My Father is a rich person in his fifties and _he_ doesn’t have nearly as many golfing stories as Marcus. It’s a bit sad, honestly.

I’m almost glad to I see that it’s nearly three o’clock which means I have to return to the office.

“Sorry boys,” I say, pushing back my chair and throwing twenty pounds on the table for this overpriced salad. “Duty calls. But thrilling story, Marcus.”

What has this internship made of me?

Truthfully, I don’t really agree with my Father’s reasoning behind this meeting, but I’m not going to pretend I know enough to openly disagree with him. As far as I know, Grimm Real Estates wants to build a housing complex in a certain area, but the conservation ecologists won’t let them because the area is protected or something like that. Now they’re holding a meeting in which they’re going to try to reach an agreement, which probably just means they’re going to try to convince the ecologists to let them build in the area anyway because my Father doesn’t negotiate. He pretends he does, but in the end, he always gets it his way.

That’s the bit I don’t understand. Why are they so eager to build on this land if it’s protected? I mean, I don’t know a thing about conservation ecology and protected areas, but neither does anyone else in this room, and if we’re listening to the experts in the field of economics and architecture, why won’t we listen to the experts in ecology?

I mean, I know why. The profit. It’s always about the profit around here.

“Ah, fresh meat,” one of my Father’s employees pats me on the back as I sit down. “Don’t look so glum, you’ll see, these meetings are quite fun.” I wonder if anyone in this bloody company knows the definition of fun.

“Yeah, you’ll see. Some old weirdo’s gonna show up and talk for three hours about the frogs or whatever and then one of our guys is going to show him the facts and they’ll scurry off like a kicked puppy,” one of the other employees chimes in.

“Bonus points if they show up wearing camo pants,” the first employee says, wheezing with laughter.

“Or an army green shirt with a salamander printed on it,” the other one says. I make a point not to mention their cheap suits and improperly pressed button ups.

“What facts?” I ask instead.

“What?” the first one says, wiping the tears from his eyes. Christ, the camo pants comment wasn’t even that funny.

“What facts are we going to present them with?”

“Well, mate,” the second employee says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “The facts are people care about the housing more than they care about the freaking frogs.”

We wait for a bit as different people trickle in. They’re all my Father’s employees – city boys with fitted suits and expensive laptops and the same generic haircut. My Father wanted me to cut my hair before I started my internship here, but my Aunt just about killed him for even suggesting it. Good, because I wouldn’t have done it anyway. I like my hair. 

When the ecology expert shows up, it’s not hard to spot him. He’s not wearing camo pants or a salamander shirt, but he still sticks out like a sore thumb among the sea of shirts and ties. The first thing I notice about him is that he’s young. Really fucking young. How is he already considered an expert? Surely, that boy can’t be older than me.

The second thing I notice is that he’s fit. He’s got these broad shoulders that fill out the entirety of his green sweater (who wears a sweater with elbow patches, by the way? I thought that this trend died out years ago) and his hair is a mess of bronze curls. It looks like he’s been running his hand through them nervously, and my suspicions are confirmed as he runs his hand through them again after setting up his papers. He then looks up to see all of us staring at him and scrunches his face. (His face is covered in freckles. Adorable).

I feel kind of bad for him. My Father is going to eat him alive.

On the other hand, maybe this meeting won’t be such a drag if I have someone attractive to stare at. I lean back and tap my pen against my notepad. I’m a bit more invested now, but I’m not going to show it.

The meeting starts and the boy stands up to speak.

“So, um, hello, I’m Simon Snow and I’m here with the Watford Institute for Nature Conservation to talk about the uh, building permits for Mummer’s moor,” he stammers.

“What are your credentials, Mr. Snow?” my Father says immediately.

“Oh, um, I’m currently working on my PhD under dr. David Mage.” Christ, they sent us a PhD student? My Father really is going to eat him alive… and quite easily. I watch as some of my Father’s employees sit back with sly smiles playing on their faces. I know what they’re thinking: the building permits are practically ours already.

“And why couldn’t your mentor be here today?” my Father asks.

“He’s really busy with the… uh, bird migrations,” Snow says, running his hand through his hair again.

“And he thinks bird migrations are more important than this meeting?”

“Um, yes?” The boy says matter-of-factly and I bite back a laugh. Maybe this _is_ going to be amusing after all.

“Alright then… Mr. Snow,” my Father pauses significantly before saying his name, probably to highlight that the boy doesn’t even have a PhD. “Tell us why we shouldn’t build on the moor.”

“Well, it’s a protected area,” Snow says and I can’t help it. I actually scoff this time. Everyone in the room looks at me, expecting me to say something. Fuck.

“You’re gonna have to try a bit harder than that.”

SIMON

I really don’t want to be here. I’d much rather be out on the Moor right now, looking at bird migrations and have Davy deal with this. But of course, negotiating with greedy old businessmen is part of being a conservation ecologist and Davy said I should start getting experience with it. 

I just wish he didn’t send me straight into the deep end. Negotiating with Malcolm Grimm about the Mummer’s moor – that’s about as deep as you can get. You’d need a whole army of ecologists to talk some sense into that guy’s head. We’ve lost so many important areas to his projects already, but the Mummer’s moor is possibly the most important one. We really can’t afford to lose this one.

I can feel all of their eyes on me and the moment Mr. Grimm asked me about my credentials, I knew I wasn’t going to be taken seriously. What I didn’t expect was for the youngest bloke in the room to be the first one to question me.

He fell into my eyes as soon as I walked in. I don’t know if it was his age or his hair or because he was the only person in the whole room wearing a black shirt instead of a white one. I don’t know who he is, but his grey eyes have been boring into me ever since I started talking. It’s a bit uncomfortable, really. I’m not good with eye contact.

And he looks so bored. He’s leaning back in his chair, tapping his pen against the (empty) page of his notepad, looking like everyone in this room is beneath him. Even when he speaks, his voice sounds bored.

“You’re gonna have to try a bit harder than that,” he says and I feel the anger rise in my chest. Who does this guy think he is?

I take a deep breath and try to calm down. Looks like I’m going to have to give these fuckers a 101 in ecology.

BAZ

It looks like I’ve pissed him off, which truthfully, wasn’t even my intention, but the other people in this room seem very pleased with me right now. Snow’s ears turn pink and he huffs, sticking his chin out. For a second I think he’s going to leave the room but then he _goes off_.

“The Mummer’s moor and wetlands are a protected area because they are home to a vastly diverse population of animals and plants. The wetlands are especially important because they contain a habitat called the bog. See, bogs are important because they are largely compromised of a type of moss called _Sphangum_ or peat moss and they can store large amounts of carbon, which helps fight climate change. Additionally, peat moss can take in more than 20 times of its weight in water, which prevents floods in heavy rainfall. Now, because of peat mining, more than 90% of British bogs are ruined and we should strive to conserve what little of natural bogs we still have left,” he says, looking like he’s just run a marathon. I notice this is the first thing he said without stammering. Maybe anger bodes well for his talking abilities. I’m also a little bit pleased, because the rest of the room is just staring at him, trying to think of something to say. He made a good point with the flooding. If they compromise the habitat, the homes there could be subjected to water damage.

My Father clears his throat.

“Well, yes, Mr. Snow, but we are talking about building on the moor and not on the bogs,” he says. “Larry, show him the maps.”

Larry, the employee who was crying about camo pants earlier, grabs a remote control and presses a button so that the projector screen shows a map of Mummer’s moor.

“See, all of the housing complexes are planned around the bogs.”

“Yes, but the moor and the bogs are closely intertwined. You can’t build on one without compromising the other. And all of the building methods are very invasive and harmful to the local ecosystem,” Snow objects.

“I think you will find that our company has been engineering new building methods specifically for this project,” my Father says slyly and I’m not sure if that’s the truth or not. Snow huffs again and is silent for a moment, studying the maps. I can already see the loophole in my Father’s carefully omitted plan, but I wonder if he sees it.

“Yes, but these are just the housing complexes. If people live here, they’re going to want shops and schools and such. Where are you going to build that?” Snow finally says after a full minute and I can’t help but to smile. He’s seen it. He looks directly at me then and I quickly look down at my notepad, pretending to write something in it.

“We are talking strictly about the permits for the housing complexes here, Mr. Snow,” my Father says, for the first time not sounding so overconfident. He’s probably pissed because Snow has seen through his plan.

“So, you want to build houses without any shops or schools nearby? I thought you were planning for the future here,” Snow retaliates and I can’t help but to scoff again. The bloke has some nerves, coming here and insulting my Father’s ways. I admire his courage, I really do. Plus, I’ve noticed his accent gets more Northern when he’s worked up and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a tiny bit attracted to him. Maybe I’ll take his side in this argument just because of how ridiculously fit he is.

“We _are_ planning for the future. It’s you people who want to keep England the same as it’s always been,” my Father hisses, his voice ice cold. He must be losing it if he’s getting on the level of personal insults.

“Have you ever been to the Mummer’s moor, Mr. Grimm?” Snow asks, but he doesn’t wait for my Father’s answer. “It really is quite beautiful. I’d like to invite you to take a trip up there with one of us and we’ll visit all the spots you want to build in and show you exactly how and why building here would be bad for the ecosystem.”

The whole room is silent, waiting for my Father’s answer. I know he never visits the places he builds on, at least not before they’re built anyway. I’m waiting for my Father to dismiss him, but when he speaks again, his words take me by surprise.

“Alright. Basilton will go.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wave at him and then walk closer to his car. I’m holding two takeaway cups of tea in my hand, because despite hating the Grimms and everything they stand for, I still decided to be nice. The moor is more important than some petty fights.  
> “Hiya. We’ve met before, but again, I’m Simon,” I say, extending out my hand to him. He just stares at it for a bit, then slowly takes his hand out of his pocket and shakes it. His fingers are ice cold.  
> “Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he says. “Word has it you’ll be my personal guide.”

SIMON

Basilton turned out to be the bloke who laughed at me. He also turned out to be Malcolm Grimm’s son. That’s probably why he was the only person under thirty-five in this meeting. I love nepotism.

I would also love to have spent my Friday afternoon doing things other than showing this Basilton bloke around the moor. I mean, it’s not like I have any plans but still. It’s a perfect day to observe bird migrations. It’s cloudy and it’s probably going to rain later, which usually makes a lot of birds land for a few days and that’s a perfect opportunity to observe passage migrants.

But instead, I have a private tour reserved with sons of greedy businessmen.

I can’t say I have much respect for Malcolm and his son. Malcolm’s company has taken so much from us. It’s like he can sniff out the areas that the Watford institute protects, and then takes them away from us for fun. He finds his ways around the laws, manipulates us or straight up lies to everyone involved. Ebb thinks he should be in prison and I agree with her.

And his son, Basilton, doesn’t seem much better. He seems like a posh entitled twat, to be honest. I’m sure he’s going to do his very best to make my day as miserable as possible.

There he is right now, standing next to his Jag on the parking lot of the pub we’ve agreed to meet at. I’m a bit relieved to see he didn’t show up in a suit, but he’s still dressed _way_ too nice to be going to the moor. He’s wearing a trench coat paired with a very expensive looking scarf. Even his jeans look like they’re worth half of my pay check. And he’s probably going to ruin his loafers. Oh well, that’s on him.

I wave at him and then walk closer to his car. I’m holding two takeaway cups of tea in my hand, because despite hating the Grimms and everything they stand for, I still decided to be nice. The moor is more important than some petty fights.

“Hiya. We’ve met before, but again, I’m Simon,” I say, extending out my hand to him. He just stares at it for a bit, then slowly takes his hand out of his pocket and shakes it. His fingers are ice cold.

“Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” he says. “Word has it you’ll be my personal guide.”

“Aye. Here, I brought you some tea. It gets a bit cold out here,” I say, even though I don’t think it’s that cold. I half expect him to turn down my tea, but he takes it eagerly, wrapping both of his hands around the cup. He must be really cold – I mean, he’s looks properly decked out with his scarf and a thick, expensive looking woollen sweater under his coat.

“Thanks,” he mutters, sipping his tea.

“So, shall we get going? Do you have the maps?”

“Um, no. I didn’t bring them,” he says. I stop in my tracks.

“You what?” I was counting on going to the locations they want to build on, but the bastard doesn’t even bring the maps. Is that how they’re going to play this game?

I mean, I suppose I should’ve expected this. Ebb said it’s a miracle I even got them out here.

“I didn’t bring the maps,” he repeats. I huff. Whatever I say next is certainly not going to be polite, so I opt for staying quiet while I try to think of a backup plan.

And to think I’ve wasted my money on buying him tea.

“Listen…” Basilton says slowly. “I don’t exactly always agree with my Father’s plans, okay? So just, I don’t know, say you showed me around and I’ll tell my Father that the land is oh so beautiful and we shouldn’t destroy it, yeah?”

His words take me by surprise, but then I remember how he laughed at me, and I decide I don’t trust him one bit. Knowing the Grimms, he’s probably going to tell his Father it’s all a muddy pile of rubbish and that it should definitely get bulldozed as soon as possible. No thanks.

“Well, you’re already here now. I might as well give you a tour.”

BAZ

He doesn’t trust me. Well, I suppose that’s fair. We are on the two opposing sides, after all. But I was still hoping maybe I could get out of this whole thing. Not only is it colder than a witch’s tit out here, I also just really don’t want anything to do with Simon Snow. I was hoping for him to be one of those attractive strangers I see once and never again, but now I actually have to interact with him, so that whole time I was staring at him in that meeting is really coming back to bite me in the arse.

I generally try not to find people I know attractive, because it’s usually just a mess and I don’t have the time or energy to deal with catching feelings, so I only indulge in the attractiveness of total strangers. It’s just easier that way.

All in all, I can’t exactly say I’m looking forward to spending the afternoon walking around the moor with him. Although maybe his repulsive sweater will do the trick. It’s purple and it has WICN embroidered on the chest in green, which I’m assuming means Watford Institute for the Conservation of Nature. Seriously, doesn’t he scare away the animals with that thing? And how is he not cold? I have one of my thicker sweaters _and_ a coat on and I’m still shivering, and he’s out here in a sweater and a hat. Well, at least he’s wearing a hat, I guess? It looks hand knitted and I wonder who made it for him. Some of his bronze curls are already escaping from under the grey wool.

I also came to the conclusion that I’m definitely overdressed. At first, I was relieved, because I saw he was wearing jeans, but when he got closer, I saw the mud caked on his hiking boots and the cuffs of his trousers and I realized I’m definitely overdressed.

But then again, that’s pretty much 30% of my personality, so should I really be surprised?

We’re driving in his car now (or I suppose one of the WICN cars, since that’s what’s written on the doors), a 2008 Jeep Wrangler, and I’m relieved that he at least has heating on. My Jag has heated seats and I suggested we take my car, but Snow said it can’t handle the terrain. I was only mildly offended at that, but now that we’re on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere, I suppose he was right.

To my extreme displeasure, it’s only colder when we get out of the car. Now that we’re on the moor, 15 minutes away from the village, there’s really nothing to shield us from the wind and I wrap my coat tighter around myself. I hate this.

“Alright so this is the moor,” Snow points out the obvious. It honestly doesn’t look like much. Muddy green hills under a dark grey sky – that’s pretty much England in a nutshell. The rocks are the only mildly interesting things here. I’m pretty sure my little siblings would love to climb on them.

Well, and the birds. There’s a massive flock of birds in the sky. Snow sees me staring at it and steps closer, also looking up.

“Those are starlings,” he says. “They come here from Eastern Europe for the winter.”

“Huh. I thought birds left for the winter,” is all I can think to say.

“Yeah, some of them. We have three categories for migratory birds; summer visitors, winter visitors and passage migrants. Starlings are winter visitors because they spend their winters here,” he explains. I can only vaguely recall what a starling looks like. I think that’s the bird that stole Fiona’s chips off her plate one time when we were drunk and went for fish and chips. It made me laugh so hard I nearly fell off the step I was sitting on. But that was in the summer. We got drunk because I graduated university.

“But there are starlings here in the summer as well, aren’t there?” I ask, feeling properly out of my depth, but Snow looks at me like he just asked me a question and I got it right.

“Yes, there are. We also have a native population of starlings, so the ones who breed in the UK never leave. Nice observation,” he says, which leaves me feeling puzzled because I never observed anything, but alright. Or I suppose I did observe a starling steal Fiona’s chips, but that’s hardly an observation.

But whatever. If it makes him trust me and that means we can get out of this wind, I’ll take it. Unfortunately, Snow starts walking down the hill and I have no choice but to follow him.

“Where are you going?” I half-yell after him.

“I did say I was gonna give you a tour,” he says, his words getting half lost in the wind.

“Snow, this place is massive. Wouldn’t it be easier if you gave me a tour you know, with the car?”

“City boy needs to get some fresh air,” he shrugs and I consider pushing him down the hill. He turns around and looks at me then. “How old are you anyway?”

“What does that have to do with anything?” I sneer. He shrugs again.

“It’s just, you seem a bit young to be working in that office.” I swear to god, if he wants to shade me for nepotism, I really am going to push him down the hill.

“I’m an intern. My Father is letting me work here until I finish my PhD,” I say through gritted teeth.

“So, you’re what, twenty-six, twenty-seven?”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“Sweet. Me too.” I roll my eyes at him and we reach the bottom of the hill. “Okay so this is one of the smaller marshes. Don’t step any further or you’ll ruin your shoes.”

I stand there, shivering, as he explains the marshes to me. He talks about the carnivorous plants and orchids (I didn’t even know we had orchids in Britain) (he showed me a picture and they look nothing like the orchids Daphne buys for her relatives) and how frogs come here to mate in the spring. It’s actually quite interesting, but I’m so fucking cold. I try not to show any visible excitement when he suggests we head back to the car.

He’s just _talking_. About the moor or the bogs or the birds, it doesn’t matter, it seems like he doesn’t run out of things to talk about. We’re driving and he points out various hills that all look the same and tells me about how and why it’s important that we keep them intact and he’s nowhere near the stammering mess he’s been in my Father’s office earlier this week. It’s so much information, though, and by the time we get to our next stop, I’ve already forgotten half of what he’s told me.

I don’t think it’s a planned stop. He sees another Jeep parked in the middle of nowhere and just beelines for it.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“To meet someone.”

The Jeep, as it turns out, belongs to a blonde woman named Ebb. She’s wearing the same purple sweater as Snow is, although she also has a scarf and a jacket over it. This gives me some comfort, as it shows that I’m not overreacting to the cold.

“Hiya, Ebb. What are you doing?”

“Oh, hiya, Simon. Who’s that?”

Snow opens his mouth to answer, but I beat him to it. “Basilton Grimm-Pitch,” I say, extending my hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Her eyes narrow as soon as she hears my name, but she shakes my hand anyway. “Ebeneza Petty. But please, call me Ebb. What brings you here, Mr. Grimm-Pitch?”

“Oh, my Father sent me to take a look of the place. You probably know we’re negotiating for building permits right now,” I say. Ebb narrows her eyes again.

“I’m familiar, yes.”

“Mr. Snow here has just been showing me around and telling me about the local biodiversity. Quite fascinating, really. What is your position here?” I ask. If they’re going to treat me like the enemy, I might as well act like one.

“Oh, I’m a vet. I work in the village, but I also take care of the animals in this area and help with its conservation. Which reminds me, Simon, would you be a dear and get the two boxes out of my car?”

“On it,” Snow says, practically dashing towards her car.

“What do the animals here need care for?” I ask, hoping that she recognizes the curious tone in my voice and doesn’t treat my question as malicious.

“Oh, you know, even if it’s a protected area, bad things still happen. We have car accidents, hunting mishaps, every year or so some animal gets mauled by a dog… and I’m usually here when the Watford people do their bird ringings or things like that, just to take care of any animals that might be hurt in the process.”

“What is bird ringing?”

“You catch birds in nets and then you put rings around their feet. Every ring has a code and it connects to a database, so you can also check there if you catch a bird that’s already ringed. It helps us understand bird populations,” Snow says, carefully carrying two large plastic animal carriers.

“What’s in here?” I ask, but I get my answer when Snow places the boxes on the ground and sticks his hands in one of them.

“Hey, hey, shh, it’s okay,” he croons softly. “It’s alright.”

Moments, later, he pulls his hands out, now carefully holding a starling.

“Some of them get exhausted after such a long journey. I found this one yesterday and I brough him to Ebb,” he explains, turning to me. “Look at his foot, it has a ring, yeah? I checked the database when I found him and saw that he’s been spotted here last winter in Hampshire and this summer in Hungary. So, this little guy has made quite a journey. And that’s how bird ringing works. Now we’re going to let go of him because handling them too much stresses them out.” He steps a bit further from us. “Goodbye little one. Have a safe winter,” he says softly before releasing the bird. The starling immediately flies up and joins the massive flock above us.

“How do you know that it’s a boy?” I ask.

“I mean there are different ways to check. For starlings, the males usually have black irises and the females usually have brown, but that’s not a sure way to tell. The males also weigh more. For this one, the database said he’s a male, but Ebb found another one yesterday and she’s probably a female because she has brown eyes.”

Ebb has already reached in the other box and is holding an identical starling. I’m too far away to see her eyes, but I don’t want to get any closer and spook the bird, so I’ll just take their word for it.

“Aye. This one wasn’t ringed, so we also put a ring on her yesterday,” Ebb adds. The bird starts stirring. “Alright, let’s let her go. Goodbye, wee one!”

I watch as the starling joins the flock. Next to me, I hear someone sniff.

“Ah, sorry. I always get emotional at these things,” Ebb says, rubbing at her eyes with the cuffs of her jacket. Snow puts her arm around her and they look at the flock together and I have a feeling I just witnessed something really special.

SIMON

Basilton disappears in the pub to make some phone calls as soon as we get back to the village.

“He’s not so bad, eh?” Ebb says, putting our pints on the table. I scowl.

“Him? Don’t forget what they’re trying to take away from us, Ebb.”

“Aye, but he’s just a kid, isn’t he? It seems to me like he’s just following other people’s footsteps instead of thinking with his own head.”

“He’s twenty-five, I’m sure he’s perfectly aware of what he’s doing.”

“I don’t know. I’d give him the benefit of the doubt. He did seem genuinely interested in our work,” Ebb shrugs, taking a sip of her beer.

“He’s a Grimm. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can spit. He’s probably already plotting ways to bring us down using what he’s learned today. I bet he’s on the phone with his Father as we speak.”

“Why yes, I was on the phone with my Father,” a bored voice sounds behind me. Shit. Basilton sits down next to me. “I told him I don’t think I’ve gathered enough data, and that I would be staying here a bit longer.”

“Excuse me, what?” I erupt before I can stop myself. Oh no, please don’t tell me he’s going to be sticking around.

“I’ll be staying here a bit longer,” he repeats, slowly. “And I’m going to help you keep this place intact.”

I nearly fall out of my chair. Did he seriously say he was going against his Father?

“What?” Ebb says, equally shocked as I am.

“You heard me. What he’s doing is unethical and illegal. You don’t have the resources and the evidence to even stand a chance against him when it comes to negotiating but I do.”

Ebb and I are still staring at him in shock. I don’t know what to say. Part of me wants to hug him and thank him and part of me still thinks it’s all just another plot to bring us down.

“Can we trust you, Basilton?” Ebb speaks after what seems like years of silence.

“That is up to you. But it might interest you, Snow, that I am a Pitch before I am a Grimm. Now if you excuse me,” he says, standing up hastily, “I have to go to London to pick up my stuff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did so much starling research for this chapter, I feel like I should cite my sources  
> Friendly reminder that I'm still looking for a beta! Also English is my second language so I apologize for any grammar mishaps
> 
> My tumblr: vampire-named-gampire  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter  
> Chiara xx
> 
> Also un-obligatory ornithology lesson:  
> Passage migrants - birds who fly over Britain (or any country) and stop for a few weeks there to rest and eat some food before continuing their journey. There is also a sub-category for this but I couldn't find the English word (not sure if Britain even gets those), but sometimes the weather conditions force the birds to land in places they would usually just fly over, for example one time, the rain forced two flamingos to land in my country for a few days and our ornithologists were thrilled


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cold and the wind and the fact that Snow put too much milk in my coffee aside, it is quite beautiful out there this early in the morning. The sun is barely out and the fog is stretching lazily across the hills.  
> “So, what, you do this every morning?” I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much @gampyre for beta-reading this, your feedback has been amazing and so helpful!

BAZ

Okay, so deciding to side against my Father might not have been the smartest choice. I was fully expecting to go back to London and tell my Father that I think the Watford Institute was doing a good job and that he should reconsider his plans, and for him to say he would take my input into consideration but then never actually consider it. It would maybe have slowed the whole thing down by a few months or even a year, but in the end, my Father would get to build the housing complexes that he wanted.

In the end, it wasn’t the moor or the bogs or Snow’s endless rambling about the ecosystem that made me decide it’s worth going against my Father. It was Ebb.

Or I guess it was a bit of Snow as well.

I’ve just never seen people so genuinely passionate about their job. Yes, my Father and his employees are all passionate about working for Grimm Real Estates, but that’s different. They are all driven by profit. Simon and Ebb expect nothing in return – they just want to keep this place intact and the wildlife here safe.

Plus, when I was up in the moor, I felt more relaxed than I’d ever felt in a whole year. I mean, it was cold and windy and horrible and my shoes are ruined, but I didn’t feel any pressure to be someone else or act in a way that would please my Father.

And I think my Mother wouldn’t have wanted my Father to build in a place like this. She always had a great appreciation for nature – it’s one of the few things I remember about her – and seeing how my Father just wants to recklessly bulldoze a place like this… it doesn’t sit right with me. 

I talked to Fiona first and she told me I’ve lost it. She told me I’d ruin the relationship with my Father and that he’d cut me from the family.

“What, again?” I scoffed. My father had already cut me off once, when I was sixteen and I came out as gay. It was only once he found out that I graduated top of my class from the London School of Economics that he decided to make contact with me again.

I guess that’s why I don’t feel so guilty turning my back on him now.

And in the end, Fiona agreed with me that it was the right thing to do. And that was all the confirmation I needed.

SIMON

Basilton comes back after the weekend. For the first few days, he’s staying at the Inn above the pub, but then Ebb finds him a place. My place.

“Si, you have a spare bedroom, right?” she says one day as we’re just finishing up our daily patrol around the moor.

“Yes?”

“Maybe you could offer it to Basilton. So that he doesn’t have to pay for the Inn.” I slam the brakes so hard it lurches us both forward.

“Absolutely not!”

“Oh, come on. He’s doing this thing for us, the very least we could do is offer him a place to stay.”

“He’s rich, he can pay for the Inn,” I huff.

“I already told him you’d be happy to welcome him.”

“Ebb!”

“Okay, listen, Si. If you still think he has some hidden plot to bring us down, then it would be way easier to keep an eye on him if he lives with you, right?” she asks. I sigh. I hate it when Ebb is right. 

Never in my life did I think I’d be flatmates with a Grimm. Although I guess he did say he was more of a Pitch (whatever that means). And he did ask us to call him Baz because only his father calls him Basilton.

“Okay, ground rules,” I say, once we finally carry all of Baz’s luggage in my house. He has _so much_ luggage. Why does he have so much? Half of it is heavy like a bag of bricks as well and by the time we get all of it inside, I’m tired, sweaty and annoyed. _And_ I’m starving. “Don’t touch my shit, clean up after yourself and don’t make any noise after ten pm.”

“I think you’ll find that I’m a meticulously tidy person.”

I show him upstairs to his bedroom. “The bathroom’s down the hall. This door over here is my bedroom and you’re not allowed in, got it?”

“Snow, that’s just basic flatmate rules,” he says, sounding bored. He always sounds bored.

“Okay well, the next rule isn’t basic and it’s the most important one.”

“I’m listening.”

“There are bird feeders in the garden. Whatever you do, do not touch them.”

That makes him laugh. Actually laugh. I didn’t know he was capable of genuine laughter – so far, I’ve only heard him do sarcastic scoffs. (They’re infuriating.) “Your most important rule is about the bird feeders?”

“Yes, they’re important. I’m running an experiment with different types of seed and I don’t want you to compromise my research,” I say, feeling a bit stupid. Baz is still staring at me with a very amused look on his face.

“Alright, I won’t compromise your research. Are you doing this for the Watford Institute?” he asks and I consider lying and saying yes, but then I just imagine him telling his Father about how we can run experiments in our back garden, so we don’t really need the moor.

“Um, no, this is more like… my own hobby,” I stammer.

“Your hobby is feeding birds?” God, I want to wipe that amused smile off his face. I feel my cheeks turning red like they always do when I’m embarrassed.

“I’m an ornithologist, what did you expect?” I snap, turning on my heel to walk downstairs.

“I thought you were a conservation ecologist,” he says, following me.

“I am. My specialty is ornithology.”

“My specialty is microeconomics,” he says and I have to stop myself from making a face.

“That sounds revolting,” I say and he laughs again.

BAZ

In the week I’ve been here, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting almost everyone that works at the moor. Most of them look at me with suspicion in their eyes at first, but Ebb has decided to trust me, which apparently means something around here, because people start to get more open after that.

Well, everyone except Snow.

He still glares at me every time he sees me, which is most of the time now, since I live in his house. I never thought I’d end up here, since I have enough money to pay for the Inn, but Ebb insisted and I didn’t want to say no to her.

Living with Snow so far has been… interesting. His house is pretty small, but he stays out of my way most of the time or ignores me. Still, just his way of living is incredibly annoying at times. For example, when he comes back from the moor after it rains and leaves a trail of muddy puddles behind him and then completely forgets about them for the next few hours. I can see the bits where his hardwood floors have been ruined because of his carelessness. Or how he leaves his shit _everywhere_. (Granted, it’s his house, but still) (who leaves their socks on the sofa?) (My Stepmother would’ve had his work cut out with him.)

The worst part is the cold. Yes, he’s brought me blankets and I have the heating on up in my room, but the rest of the house is a fucking freezer, because Snow’s worst enemy is apparently the central heating system. To make matters even worse, he’s always opening the windows and he bitches at me if I close them. Why he does that in late October beats me. I just hope he won’t be complaining when I eventually hog all the blankets in the house, because that’s entirely his fault.

His house is lovely, though, and when he’s not in it, I’m rather glad I took up Ebb’s offer to stay here. He’s got this winter garden that doubles as a lounge and I spend most of my days on the sofa there, working. I think it annoys him that I’m taking up his sofa so much so I try to do it as often as I can, as a revenge for the windows. It’s actually a great method for productivity. Not only do I have to juggle doing the work for my internship online as well as writing my dissertation, I now also have to write a comprehensive list of reasons why my Father shouldn’t build on the moor. I’ve started with the areas that I’m familiar with such as analysing my Father’s financial plans for the project in order to find flaws, but eventually, I know I’ll have to talk to Snow to help me with the ecological aspect of things. 

The sofa is the nice part of living with him. So is his cooking. I thought I’d have to go to the pub every night to eat, because I don’t know where in this tiny village would I get takeout, and I don’t exactly fancy burning Snow’s house down, but as it turns out, he always makes at least three servings of everything he cooks (and then he eats two of them), so that hasn’t really been an issue. Aside from the mud and the messiness and the cold and the annoying glares he sends at me every time I’m on the sofa, he’s actually been a decent flatmate.

Oh, and there’s another thing. He gets up super early.

It’s five am right now and he’s already stomping around so loudly he actually woke me up. I sigh and pull the covers over my face.

“Oi, can you be a bit quieter, some of us are trying to sleep!” I yell as he stomps up the stairs for what must be the sixth time this morning. The footsteps pause and suddenly, I hear my door open.

“Do you want to come to the moor with me?”

“At this hour? Are you mad?” I mutter, lifting up my covers to look at him. He’s already fully dressed, wearing that god-awful purple fleece again. He shrugs.

“Possibly. Come on, I’ll make you coffee.”

He really has gone mad if he thinks I’m leaving this bed. I groan and pull the covers back over my head.

“You did say you were going to help us.”

“I meant with persuading my Father, not helping you pick up injured birds,” I say.

“That’s not even what we do. How will you help us if you don’t ever see what we actually do here?” he retaliates and damn him, he’s right.

“I take my coffee with two sugars and a little bit of milk,” I sigh, throwing my covers back. I guess I really am doing this.

“That’s the spirit!”

“Shut up. I hate you,” I mutter, stumbling to my wardrobe to find the warmest sweater possible.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Be ready in fifteen minutes!”

-

The cold and the wind and the fact that Snow put too much milk in my coffee aside, it is quite beautiful out there this early in the morning. The sun is barely out and the fog is stretching lazily across the hills.

“So, what, you do this every morning?” I ask, taking a sip of my coffee.

“Uh, no, we take turns,” he says, not looking up from his notes. He’s been leaning against the bonnet of his car ever since we got here, scribbling something in his notebook. I have no idea what he’s doing.

“What, you and Ebb?”

“Yeah, or someone else comes by to check. It really depends. But Ebb and I are the only ones who actually live here, so it’s mostly just us, yes.”

“What are you even checking?”

“If everything’s okay and so on. And we usually keep an eye peeled for the animals because they’re more active this early in the morning. So, if you see anything, let me know.”

I abstain from mentioning how keeping his nose buried in that notebook probably won’t help him see any animals.

“What’s your favourite animal around here?” I ask instead.

“My favourite?” he repeats, a smile tugging at his lips. I look down. Sometimes I think I’m getting used to how annoyingly attractive he is, but then he smiles like this or does something else ridiculously adorable and I feel like I got hit by a train all over again.

“Probably the curlew. They’re actually the topic of my dissertation. But they only come here in the summer.”

“Huh,” I say. I have no idea what a curlew is. Turns out, I don’t even have to ask, because Snow is already shoving his phone in my face, showing me a picture of a large, brown bird with a long, slender beak. The bird looks sort of exotic and I’d never expect to find it in Britain of all places. “That’s an ibis,” I say, probably way too confidently. Snow looks like he’s torn between laughing at me and killing me. 

“Ibises are an entirely different colour,” he says, his tone slightly offended. “That’s a curlew. They’re not even related!”

“Okay, okay, my bad. What’s so special about the curlew? Other than that it looks like an ibis?” I add that last part just to annoy him. Snow doesn’t even seem to notice. His face lights up with excitement, like it always does every time I ask him anything about birds. (I mean literally _anything_.) (The other day I asked him why their poop was white and he looked like I’d given him a Christmas present.) (It’s infuriatingly adorable and I should really just stop asking bird related questions altogether.)

“Well, for starters, curlews are _hella_ cool,” he says.

“Hella?” I raise my eyebrows at him.

“Hella,” he confirms. “I mean, look at him,” he shows me the picture of the curlew again and I notice it’s actually his lockscreen. (Of course, he’d have a picture of his dissertation topic as his lockscreen.) “Isn’t he just the coolest? Anyway, they come to the moor in the spring to breed, but once the breeding season is over, they head out to the coastlines, because there’s more food there. The cool thing about them is that they always return to the same location to breed, so we can follow different breeding pairs that way. We also ring curlews, but it’s a different type of ringing. The songbirds have tiny little rings that require catching them again, and the curlews and other bigger birds usually get more colourful rings with bigger letters and numbers. That way you can recognize them on the field without having to catch them again. That’s called colour-ringing,” he explains, pausing to show me a picture of another curlew with a yellow ring around its leg. “I’ve been following their populations on this moor for two summers now. They’re uh…” his tone turns serious then. “In terms of population numbers, they’re not doing well. The biggest issue for them is loss and fragmentation of their breeding habitats. They’re not endangered _yet_ , but losing this moor could be the thing that finally pushes them on the threatened species list, not just in the UK but globally.”

“Globally?” I ask.

“Yeah well… a quarter of the world’s curlew population lives in Britain and we have a fair amount of pairs breeding on this moor so it would be really damaging,” he says. His voice is no longer bursting with excitement and he’s now glaring at me, as if it’s my fault. I guess I can see where that’s coming from. I do, after all, work for the company that wants to build over this place.

“I had no idea it was that serious,” I say. Quietly.

“Yeah, well,” he snaps, turning away from me. “It is.” 

SIMON

It was probably a mistake bringing Baz out on the moor. I didn’t need another reminder of who he is and who he works for and everything that’s at stake. I hope it at least talked some sense into him, to maybe reconsider his stance on the situation. Just in case he still wants to conspire against us, even though I don’t think he does. 

I think maybe Ebb was right about him. Maybe he does actually want to help us. He doesn’t seem malicious. Or actually he does, but I think that’s just the way he looks naturally. Baz looks kind of like a vampire, if vampires were tan. He’s got this stark widow’s peak and his hair is nearly to his shoulders and he’s always frowning, which kind of makes him look evil. Plus, I think someone broke his nose once because it’s a bit bent at the bottom, and it just contributes to this whole dark supervillain aesthetic he has going on.

I think that’s actually for the better because his face would be too symmetrical otherwise.

I look away from where he’s sitting on my sofa ( _again_ ), hiding under three layers of blankets and typing on his laptop. It doesn’t do me good to stare at him. He looks cold. He always looks cold. It’s because he never goes outside.

He’s a prick and a posh git and I still don’t trust him not to betray us, but looking at him pulling up his blankets up to his chin makes me feel kind of bad for him.

“Do you want some tea?”

-

“I don’t understand him, Penny! He doesn't do anything, just spends the days typing away on his laptop!” I complain. It’s true. Baz has been here for a whole week and he’s only gone out to the moor twice. He was supposed to be gathering information to help us, but instead, he’s just cooped up inside. I was hopeful after that time I took him out with me on the patrol a few days ago, but ever since then, he’s barely even left the house and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s up to something.

“Have you considered he might be working?” Penny suggests. “Or maybe he’s writing his dissertation. Which by the way, have you started writing yours already?”

“No,” I mumble in my pint.

“Simon! You said you’d start writing it!”

“Yeah but I’d have to contact Professor Mage then and he’s far too busy right now,” I object. It’s true – the bird migrations are taking up everyone’s schedule. Last time I heard from Davy, he was on the Welsh coast, studying puffin populations. I had asked to come with him, but he needs somebody to deal with the whole Malcolm Grimm situation. Somebody he can trust.

Penny rolls her eyes. “Just email him. He’ll get back to you when he can,” she says but I know he won’t. Davy either answers his emails immediately or he doesn’t answer them at all. It’s slightly frustrating, but I know he’s a busy man, so I try not to dwell on it.

“Okay, can we talk about something else now?” I suggest. Ever since I moved here, I only see Penny once or twice a fortnight, and I don’t want to spend this time stressing out about my dissertation. “I still don’t know if I should trust Baz-”

“Okay, if we can’t talk about your dissertation, we can’t talk about Baz either.”

“But-” I open my mouth to object, but Penny cuts me off.

“No, Si. You talk about him _all the time_. Half of the texts you sent me this week are just about what he’s doing.”

“Or rather what he’s _not_ doing,” I mutter.

“Exactly. He’s not doing anything. Leave him be.”

I don’t talk about Baz for the remainder of the evening, but that doesn’t mean I stop thinking about it. I come to the conclusion that if I want to figure out what Baz is up to, I’m going to have to get him to trust me.

I’m going to have to befriend him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so there might be a bit of a delay with the next chapter, because I have exams coming up and I should really focus on that for a bit. I'll try to get back asap though! Thank you to everyone for your kind comments, they really make my day <3 
> 
> Bird notes I have on this chapter:  
> 1\. If Baz were a bird, he'd be a glossy ibis  
> 2\. The species of curlew in this chapter is the eurasian curlew (Numenius arquata) but there's another bird that's called the bush stone-curlew and nicknamed "screaming woman bird" and I think that's neat. However the bush stone-curlew isn't actually that closely related to the eurasian curlew because curlews and stone-curlews are a different thing, apparently? 
> 
> Anyway tumbr: vampire-named-gampire


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snow may be able to recognize five hundred species of bird on sight, but he sure as fuck doesn’t know how budget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me! this chapter is a bit late due to exams, but here it is anyway  
> Thank you to [Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading this!

BAZ

I got used to the house being empty when I get up. It’s not that I’m a late riser, just that Snow is a really early one. By the time I wake up, he’s usually already out on the moor, even on the days when he doesn’t have to do patrols.

So I’m really taken by surprise when I come downstairs this morning and see him sitting in his tiny winter garden, looking at the bird feeders outside (of course he is – the fucker’s always looking at the birds. We went to the shops together the other day and he bumped into me three times on the way there because he kept looking at the sky) (I would be mad at him if I didn’t find his bird obsession to be more than a bit cute) (plus, it was quite entertaining when he walked into a lamp post on the way back). 

Fuck, if I knew he was here, I’d have put some proper clothes on. I wouldn’t have gone into the kitchen in my pyjamas and I would definitely have refrained from humming _Mamma mia_ while I’m at it. I consider bolting back upstairs to change, but he’s already seen me.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. It comes out sharper than I intended.

“I live here.”

“I thought you’d be at the moor,” I say, opening the fridge to find something to eat.

“I do have days off, you know. Was that ABBA?”

“What?” I’m a bit distracted. I can’t find the butter anywhere, even though I swear we bought it when we went to the shops. His fridge is a mess, so I can’t even say I’m surprised that it got lost, honestly.

“You were singing ABBA,” he repeats, sounding a bit bewildered. I can feel my blood rise to my cheeks. I was hoping he hadn’t heard me, but apparently, he had.

“Ah, yes. I thought you weren’t home. Have you seen the butter?” I quickly change the topic.

“Um, yes, here it is,” he rises to his feet, grabbing his plate off the coffee table next to him. I gape as he brings it closer to me. More than half of the butter is gone and we only bought it a few days ago.

“How much fucking butter do you need?” I ask before I can stop myself. Snow’s ears turn pink and he looks away. “Snow, do you _eat_ butter?” His reaction tells me everything I need to know and I can’t help but smile. That’s absolutely disgusting. It’s revolting. He looks even more embarrassed and I love it.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

“You’re disgusting,” I say, still smiling. This whole ordeal is more than a bit amusing to me.

“ _Shut up_ ,” he repeats.

“Do you know how much cholesterol that is?”

“Baz,” he warns me, but I continue.

“Honestly, you must be the nightmare of every cardiologist.” He looks so embarrassed and it makes me kind of want to kiss him. He’d probably taste like butter (gross) (I can’t believe he _eats_ it) (I can’t believe I’m not totally repulsed by this information). I try to shake off the mental image of kissing him out of my head, but before I can do it, a sharp elbow connects with my upper arm.

“Ow, Snow!” I jump back, rubbing at my arm.

“That’s what you get,” he mutters, pushing past me to drop his dishes in the sink.

“Mental, you are. That _hurt_. Emotionally more than physically,” I say, feigning betrayal.

“Fuck off,” he says, but at least he keeps his elbows to himself this time. And he’s grinning, his smile lighting up his whole face. There are still some crumbs in the corner of his lips, and I really shouldn’t be looking at his lips. 

Fuck.

SIMON

Despite it being my day off, I still have to go to the office to pick up one of my notebooks that I forgot there. I keep most of my birdwatching notes in various notebooks, and I decided to at least do a draft of the data I’ll include in my dissertation, so I need the notebook with the notes from this July. 

“Hey, do you want to go to the office with me later?” I ask. Baz looks up from his phone.

“You have an office?” he asks with his eyebrows raised. “Or is that just a fancy way of saying the moor?”

“It’s an office.” Well, technically, it’s a tiny house on the edge of the village in which we keep all our paperwork and things like that. Everyone calls it the office, though.

“I thought it was your day off.”

“It is. I have to pick something up… for my, uh, dissertation. You should come. You’ve never seen our office before.”

“Yeah, alright,” he nods, looking back down on his phone. Well, that went easier than expected. Maybe he’s just not resisting because he knows we’ll be inside.  
I decide not to tell him there’s no heating in the office.

We drive out to the office just before lunch. It’s really quite a mess – we have binders and spare clothes everywhere and Ebb has brought in some of her veterinary supplies that she takes on the field with her. She also brought in a space heater, but it barely even works.

“Well, this is cosy,” Baz comments, looking at the used tea mug on the desk. I should probably wash that. Oh well, I can do it tomorrow. I have to find my notebook now.

I start throwing around the papers on my desk and Baz takes a look at various field supplies I keep in here.

“Who does this belong to?” he asks, holding up a large feather. I glance over to look at it.

“Um, that’s probably a merlin,” I say, turning my attention back on the stack of papers on my desk. Fucking hell, I really need to get organized.

“Probably?” he asks, his tone amused.

“It could be some other falcon, I didn’t get a good look at it,” I shrug. I have all sorts of shit here, including feathers and nests and even some unfertilized eggs. We keep them here almost like an archive and then in the spring, when groups of school kids come to the moor, we have something cool to show them.

I hear Baz walking around as I start checking the drawers. I’m in a bit of a panic now, because I still can’t find the notebook and it has some of my most important data in it. I open the last drawer and there it is.

I breathe out a sigh of relief. Thank fuck. If I didn’t find it, I’d probably have to recollect a whole summer’s worth of data all over again and it would postpone my dissertation by at least a year.

“Okay, found it, we can go now,” I announce, straightening up and lifting the notebook. Baz doesn’t even look at me. He’s picked up a thick blue binder and is currently very immersed in it.  
Oh no. I know what that is.

Baz knows too as he looks up, his expression somewhere between pained and amused.

“Snow,” he starts slowly. “Is this Mummer’s financial plan?”

“Um, yes,” I wince. I hate that fucking binder more than life itself. The main downside of being (mostly) in charge of the moor is that I’m usually the one who has to sort out all of the financial things as well.

“Who wrote this?”  
“Um, probably I did.”

“Snow, please don’t take this the wrong way, but this looks like actual chicken scratch. Do you even know what cash flow management means?”

“Yeah, okay, I’m sorry, I’m bad with money stuff,” I huff.

“My Father could tank you for this,” he says slowly. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, please don’t let him show this to Malcolm.

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry, I suck but please don’t show it to him! I’ll fix it!”

Baz’s face falls. “What? No, I wasn’t planning on _showing_ it to my Father. He’s probably going to ask for your financial plan anyway, as part of the negotiation. Really, you were lucky that I saw it before he did.”

“Why?” Can he just get to the point? Is he going to tell his father or not?

“Because I’m going to fix it for you.”

I’m not sure I do trust Baz with our financial plans – but he’s right, they’re hardly even plans. All this thing says essentially is _let’s keep doing what we’re doing and hope we don’t go bankrupt_. I mean, it’s worked so far, but still… I can understand how an economist would be appalled at this mindset.

Baz doesn’t look appalled though. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him as he gets out his laptop and his papers and digs into the binder.

Occasionally he will look up to quote something I’d written and call me an idiot, or sometimes he will make a suggestion or ask for my opinion on something. I don’t understand him. What kind of a sick, twisted bastard gets excited over financial plans? Just hearing the two words makes me want to gag and here he is, sitting at my kitchen table and working away happily while I make lunch.

We’ve agreed that for now, he’s just going to rewrite our financial plan to make it look more professional, but he suggested we get the WICN people together sometime in the future to hold a proper meeting and come up with a new plan. Apparently, this one is outdated and he’s already found a bunch of ways we could save money.

The whole thing’s giving me a headache, honestly. I’m not good with money. Or computers. I’d much rather just sit outside and not have to deal with any bureaucracy, but unfortunately, it comes with the job. 

I sigh and look down at my frying pan.

My fried rice is burning.

BAZ

Snow may be able to recognize five hundred species of bird on sight, but he sure as fuck doesn’t know how budget. Even my little sister could do a better job writing out this plan. 

I should probably go to bed. I’ve been working on this thing the whole day and I need to take a break. As much as his terribly written plan angers me, rewriting it has been really satisfying. I got struck by inspiration and wrote a rough draft for a new plan, just so that I wouldn’t forget it.

But, it’s nearing eleven pm right now and I still have to shower and get ready for bed. It’s probably going to piss Snow off – he did say no noise after ten pm. Oh well, hopefully he’s asleep already and won’t hear me.

I stretch and shut my laptop, and that’s when I hear footsteps in the corridor. A second later, my bedroom door opens.

“Jesus Christ, don’t you know how to knock?” I snap at him. “I could’ve been asleep already, you numpty!”

“I saw the light from under your door,” Snow says apologetically. “And I need your help with something.” He’s holding his laptop and standing at my doorway in a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms and a burgundy red hoodie. His eyes are bleary and tired and I can tell he’s not used to being up this late.

I swallow hard because Simon Snow is in my room, barefoot and in his pyjamas, looking like he’s about to fall asleep on his feet and I’m freaking out.

“What do you need?” I say, making a point to sound nicer this time. I don’t know why.

“Well, I’ve been digitizing the data for my dissertation and I can’t get it to look the same as it does in my notebook and I just uh… I figured maybe you’d be able to help me. Because, uh, you seem better with Excel and all that,” he says, looking at the floor. I sigh.

“Just how bad are you with computers?” I ask, nodding at him to give me my laptop.

“We didn’t have a computer where I grew up,” he shrugs. “Come to my room? I have all my notebooks there.”

I feel a bit awkward following him to his room. I’ve never been in his room and I don’t know what to expect. Is it going to be filled with weird bird memorabilia, just like his office was today?

When he opens the door, it’s just messy. His bed is unmade and he has books and papers everywhere. There’s a TV with an Xbox connected to it, and there are a few poster drawings of different birds stuck to his walls (I suppose that doesn’t surprise me). He also has polaroid pictures of him and some Indian girl on the wall above his desk as well some pictures with Ebb out on the moor. There’s also a graduation photo with an older man I don’t recognize. I’d guess it’s his father, but they don’t look alike.

I realize I’ve never heard Snow talk about his family.

Snow catches me staring at one of the photos. (It’s him, sat under a tree with the Indian girl again – his girlfriend? – and some blonde-haired girl. He looks younger in this photo and his hair is way shorter, like he’s growing out a buzzcut. He’s squinting up at the sun and smiling from ear to ear.)

“Me and my university friends,” he explains.

“Lovely,” I comment, already eyeing a different picture. There are no friends in this one, but he’s holding a large brown bird with a thin beak which I now recognize as a curlew. He’s not smiling here, but his eyes are still full of excitement as he’s entirely focused on the bird. It kind of reminds me of when he and Ebb released starlings and my heart gives a squeeze.

I was hoping he’d explain this one to me as well, but he’s already fussing over his notebooks, reminding me that we have actual work to do.

“Okay, can you make it look like it does in the notebook?” he asks. I glance at his notebook. It's full of hand drawn tables with things scribbled inside the little boxes. I can barely read his handwriting.

“You write like an animal,” I comment. “Do you seriously need help formatting an Excel spreadsheet?”

“Yeah, I told you, I’m bad with Excel,” he mumbles, sounding embarrassed.

“Did you never use Excel in university?”

“Penny always did my spreadsheets.”

“Who’s that?” I ask, raising my eyebrow at him. He points at the Indian girl in one of the pictures.

“My best friend. We were flatmates at uni,” he says.

“Tell Penny she’s enabling incompetent behaviour,” I sigh and start typing. It’s really not that hard – it should only take me a few minutes. “What are you even doing with this?”

“Oh, I, uh, I figured I’d finally digitize the data for my dissertation.”

“Wait, you haven’t done that already?”

“I haven’t even started writing it yet,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “My mentor is kind of a mess so…”

“So get a new mentor.”

“I, uh… can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t,” he snaps and it’s clear to me that he doesn’t want to talk about this topic.

“Okay, fine. Here,” I say, lifting my hands up from his computer. “All done. But I’m not inputting your data for you. Your handwriting is practically hieroglyphic.”

“Thank you, it looks great,” he says, tugging at his hoodie. I notice now that it has a golden logo that reads _Cloisters Stables_ printed on it. Weird, I’d never consider him to be the horsy type.

“I didn’t know you rode horses,” I say before I can stop myself.

“What? Oh, this,” he looks down at his hoodie. “I don’t. My ex-girlfriend did. I helped out at the stables one summer and they gave me this.”

“Why do you still have it then if it’s from your ex?”

He shrugs. “It’s a good hoodie. You’re telling me you’ve never kept things from your exes?”

“Nope. I burn them all,” I lie, making a beeline for the door. I don’t want this conversation to continue for long enough that he figures out I’ve never been in a proper relationship before.

“Yeah that sounds like you,” Snow scoffs.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know… that you’re brooding and dark and weird,” he shrugs. I smile. I can’t help it.

“Thanks, Snow. I’ll take it as a compliment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have a serious question! I genuinely can't decide on this so I'll leave it up to you:  
> Would you like to see a bed sharing trope in this fic? 
> 
> [here's a picture of a man holding a curlew that I looked at while I was writing the scene in Simon's room](https://www.google.com/search?q=human+holding+curlew&sxsrf=ALeKk03145drB3Sk5HByZ8c48aqiNuRmPA:1598129045039&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwi6laPQ1q_rAhVkwIsKHVIMCMUQ_AUoAXoECAwQAw&biw=1366&bih=657#imgrc=ua17AoyjaQQmCM)
> 
> I finally learned how hyperlink, I hope it works?  
> Anyway thank you all so much for your kind comments  
> [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/vampire-named-gampire)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am in no mood to be arguing with Fiona right now. The ride here was atrocious. The traffic was awful. My father called me and said we needed to talk, which can only mean bad things.  
> And I can’t get Simon bloody Snow out of my head. The only reason I agreed to come back to London was to get away from him, even if just for a few days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again thank you [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading this

SIMON

Baz went back to London for a few days. I suppose this doesn’t surprise me – he does have his whole life there, after all. I wonder if he has a girlfriend. Probably not, otherwise he wouldn’t just fuck off and move into a village in the middle of nowhere, right? Who does that?

Actually, I did that. But that was different! I have an actual job here. And at that point, it was clear that Aggie and I weren’t going to last.

I pretend not to notice how empty the house is without him. It’s ridiculous – he’s only been here for two weeks and he spends half of the time sulking and being quiet, so I really shouldn’t be this used to his presence. Still, I find myself accidentally making double portions of every meal and being taken aback when I don’t see him camped out on the sofa with his computer on his lap when I get home from the moor.

I guess I miss having a flatmate. When Penny and I still lived together in London, I was never bored. And it’s nice to always have some company available – even though half of the conversations I have with Baz are just sarcastic remarks.

Although, the past week or so, we’ve had some actual conversations. He finally showed me what he’s been doing on that wretched laptop of his, and I was surprised to see he had written an in-depth analysis exploring all the flaws of his father’s project plans.

I mean he’s done _so much_ , and all this time I’ve been accusing him of doing nothing.

“Obviously it’s not done yet. The most important bit is the ecological risk that this project would impose on the moor, but I figure you’re the expert on that,” he said then. I was mostly just at a loss for words. He was actually helping us and I spent so long not believing him.

We worked on the ecological risks together for the better part of last week. Thinking about everything that’s at stake here usually makes me nervous and angry, but Baz has such a cool demeanour about it. He approaches the topic with an air of confidence, like he’s not even considering failure as an option.

I guess his even temper makes me a bit calmer as well. And I guess I have gotten used to our evening sessions spent nose deep in books and behind laptop screens together.

Now that he's away, I spend extra hours at the moor to avoid my house. Finding reasons to go to the moor is not even an issue, since it’s been especially busy these days. We had a bird ringing here the other day, so a group of other ornithologists stopped in the area. While they were here, we all decided to organize a night trip to observe the short-eared owl. As much as I loved that, I’m now feeling very sleep deprived and I’m almost sure I’m coming down with something from spending the better half of the night outside in the cold.

In spite of the fact that I only got two hours of sleep and possibly have a cold, I have the morning patrol on schedule today, so I jump (more like crawl) into my car and drive out on the moor again.

It’s a shame Baz had to come here this time of year and not in the spring or summertime, so he could see just how full of life this place really gets. It’s a bit bleak in the winter, but when it gets warmer, flowers start blooming and animals wake up from hibernation and the curlews fly back from the shores.

I really wish Baz could see the curlews. In June and July, the moor is full of their babies learning how to fly. It’s my favourite time of the year.

Maybe I’ll ask Baz to come back to see them after this is all over. That is, if they’ll even have a moor to return to then…

BAZ

“So, are you back from your little vacation? Real life’s missed you, you know?”

“And I’ve missed real life,” I mutter, pushing past Fiona into her flat. It’s a bit embarrassing to be twenty-five and a son of a rich businessman and _still_ be sharing a flat with my aunt, but she’s gone half of the time anyway. It’s just easier to not have to worry about paying the rent on time.

“You know, Basil, you can’t just disappear for two weeks whenever it strikes your fancy,” she continues, following me into my room.

“Really? Because you do it a lot.” I am in no mood to be arguing with Fiona right now. The ride here was atrocious. The traffic was awful. My father called me and said we needed to talk, which can only mean bad things.

And I can’t get Simon bloody Snow out of my head. The only reason I agreed to come back to London was to get away from him, even if just for a few days.

Things have changed between us, I think. It’s like someone’s flipped a switch in Snow’s head and now he trusts me. Being around Snow when he didn’t trust me was frustrating enough – being around Snow when he’s friendly is downright infuriating. Spending our evenings working together, watching his hair shine golden under the kitchen light… it's too much. I need a break to sort out my feelings before this turns into something more catastrophic than just an innocent crush.

“That’s different, I have a _job_ -” Fiona starts, her voice bringing me back to reality.

“So do I. What is it to you, anyway? I thought you were supportive of this?”

“Yeah, when I thought you’d be gone for a few days, not for _two weeks_! You better have something good, kiddo, or Malcolm is going to be livid.”

I sigh and furrow my brow. The truth is I don’t have anything good. Or rather, I have so many good things; I’ve been writing an analysis and an appeal and recently, I’ve started working on outlining the alternatives for the project.

However, none of those things are good _enough_ for my father. I’ve yet to come up with an alternative that’s more cost efficient than the project on the moor – and until I have that, my father won’t even consider dropping the negotiations.

I need more time. 

Fiona was right. Father is absolutely livid – but he’s livid in a Malcolm Grimm way, which means he’s completely calm and collected, except for the tell-tale clench of his jaw.

When I was younger, I tried to mimic the way father carried himself. You could never know what he was feeling or thinking and I guess as a fifteen-year-old closeted kid, nobody knowing your thoughts seemed like a dream come true.

It was only when he kicked me out and I didn’t see any pain or remorse in his eyes that I realized I didn’t want to be like my father.

And here I am, on my way to take over his company. Brilliant how that turned out.

The more time I spend at the village, the more I realize just how much I don’t want to take over my father’s company. But, I’m in too deep now – I’ve already agreed on it, I’m halfway through my internship, and at this point, I have no idea how to even tell him.

Maybe if I sabotage his project he’ll fire me. The thought of that both excites me and terrifies me.

He wouldn’t fire me, though. It would be bad for PR and he really wants me to take over the company. He says my other siblings aren’t cut from the right cloth, which I think is ridiculous considering they’re all fourteen or younger. Of course they don’t seem suited to lead a company, they’re still children! Not that I’d ever wish this whole _taking-over_ pressure upon them, but I do wish my father would give them some credit. They’re all clever - just because Mordelia seems to be more interested in art than in leadership roles doesn’t mean she can’t do great things. Besides, they’re his children, not assets!

I have no idea how Daphne deals with him.

“Basilton,” my father greets me when I enter his office. “I see you’ve decided to join us again.”

“Only for the weekend. I’m going back to the moor on Monday,” I say coldly. “You’ll see that I’ve been in regular contact with Mike and have done all my work for the department online,” I add before he can give me shit for ditching my internship.

“Yes, I see that you’ve even been working overtime,” he says slyly, placing a folder on his desk. “The Watford Institute finally sent us the copy of their financial plan for the Mummer’s moor.”

I raise my eyebrows, trying not to look surprised. “And?”

“I figured since your area is microeconomics and you’re currently working on the negotiations for this project, you might want to take a look at it.”

“Thank you, yes, I do,” I say, reaching for the folder. I open it and pretend to study the spreadsheets that I wrote.

“I think you’ll find that other than being slightly outdated, the plan is near flawless,” my father comments, his voice ice cold.

“Yes, it is very impressive,” I agree, feeling weird that I’m praising my own work.

“Almost as if someone with extensive knowledge of economics wrote it.”

Fuck. Of course, he’d figure it out. My father’s not an idiot.

I try not to show any reaction to his words. I guess all those years of mimicking him did pay off after all, because I don’t even twitch. I bet Snow would be a stammering, guilty-looking mess by now.

I just shrug. “They must’ve hired a specialist,” I say.

“I doubt their budget would allow that.” My father is leaning closer now and I can feel his eyes drilling into my skull, the way they always do when he’s angry at me. When I was younger, I always looked away. I stare back now.

“Maybe it was pro bono,” I suggest in my most bored voice. It’s not even a lie. Ebb heard that I’d redone their financial plan and wanted to pay me for it, but I turned her down.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, Basilton.”

“I’m not playing at anything, Father. You sent me there to gather information on the area, so I’m gathering information on the area. What is there to play at?”

“Do you really want to go against me, Basilton? Against your own family?”

“You mean the family that kicked me out when I was sixteen?” Fuck, I hadn’t meant to say that. If I take this to a personal level, he can easily destroy me. My father twitches though, which means my words worked.

“I did apologize for my actions.”

“Really? I don’t recall.” It’s a low blow, but it’s true. My father’s apology came in the form of restored access to the family funds, a job offer and a silent agreement to never talk about my sexuality, but he never actually said he was sorry. I know he _is_ sorry (I never would’ve come back otherwise), but he’s too proud to ever say it out loud.

“Besides, this isn’t about you. This is about searching for the best possible option for all of us,” I add. The best possible option would of course be that father simply decides to build his houses somewhere else, but I don’t say that out loud.

“You’re well-spoken, Basil, I’ll give you that,” he sighs, leaning back. I try not to look visibly relieved – him breaking eye contact means I’ve won. For now, at least.

“My mother did always value education,” I say and he flinches again. Much like my sexuality, my mother and her death also fall under the topics we never talk about. “Now, Father, it was certainly nice talking to you, but I have arranged to meet for lunch with Niall and I’m already late,” I say, standing up and straightening my suit.

“Very well, Basilton. I hope you will consider my words. Your loyalty to this company does mean a great deal to me,” my father stands up as well, reaching out his arm for a handshake. It might be weird, shaking hands with my father, but I’ve gotten used to such formalities being the only way with him.

Only when I leave his office do I realize how badly my hands are trembling.

SIMON

Baz was supposed to be back today. I was certain that I’d come back from the moor today and find him sitting on my sofa like he always is.

But instead, the lounge is empty. So is the kitchen. I even check his bedroom upstairs, but he’s not there.

That’s okay. Maybe he’s late. Maybe he got caught up in some office stuff in London. I keep having to remind myself that he actually works there. And has his whole life there.

I heat up some leftovers from last night’s dinner (because I made too much pasta _again_ ) and try not to think about his whereabouts. He’ll show up. Maybe he’s stuck in a road block somewhere.

Honestly, I don’t even know why I care.

As the evening grows closer, I’m definitely growing more and more concerned. I consider texting him, but I don’t want to seem pathetic. Plus, he might be driving.

Or he might _not_ be. What if he’s actually conspiring against us? What if he just took everything that he learned in the past two weeks to his father and they’re now too busy finalizing the plans? What if letting him into my life was the mistake that’s going to eventually tank the moor? What if he’s never coming back?

I run back upstairs to his room, but I find his books and most of his clothes are still here. That’s good. He wouldn’t leave his books behind.

I suppose he could conspire against us and then come back to gather his stuff, before leaving our lives entirely and irreparably fucked up? That sounds like something he could do.

But if he were to betray us, he wouldn’t have spent all those nights working on the appeal against his father with me, right? He’s put so much time and effort into this, surely it wasn’t all for nothing?

What if he got in a car accident or his car broke down? What if he’s stuck somewhere and his phone is dead?

By dinnertime, I’ve worked myself up so much I’ve lost my appetite. Plus, I think I’m actually getting sick. My nose is stuffed and my throat hurts and my head feels like it’s full of stones. And Baz still isn’t back.

I settle for making myself tea and going to bed early, convincing myself that by the time I wake up tomorrow morning, he’s surely going to be back.

He’s not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where's Waldo more like where's Baz, amirite? 
> 
> Also you all have spoken, the boys are getting a bed (just one, though)  
> However, you might have to wait for a few chapters before we get to all that. Originally when I got the idea for this fic, I was thinking: "eh, something short and sweet, probably around five chapters long?" and now we're at five chapters and not nearly done so! life is wild
> 
> Anyway, thank you again for all your kind comments!  
> [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are we going to sort it out, Baz?” he asks, his blue eyes boring directly into mine. For someone who’s half dead, he sure looks ready to fight right now.  
> I sigh. I don’t want to fight.  
> “Yes. Fucking hell, Snow, yes we will. We have a comprehensive appeal to his proposal, yeah? And if that doesn’t work, I’ll go talk to him one on one or we’ll take it to court. There has to be something that would work and we’re going to find it, but we can’t do that if you’re sick and dying so please just lie down and stop stressing about it.”  
> He’s still staring at me fiercely and for a moment, I think he’s going to swing at me or something. Instead, he just sighs and leans back on the sofa.  
> “Your father’s an arse,” he mutters, pulling the blankets over himself. “But I suppose you’re right.”  
> I don’t say anything. A few minutes later, he’s asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm so sorry this took so long to update!  
> Once again thank you [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta-ing this

BAZ

I fucked up the other night. I was supposed to go back on Monday, but I went out with Dev and Niall on Sunday to watch the football game and have a few drinks, and we may have had a tad too much, which I’m guessing was reasonable, given that Dev was having a crisis over breaking up with his girlfriend, Niall was having a crisis over Dev being single again, and I was having a crisis over returning to Snow’s house tomorrow morning.

Lesson learned: alcohol is not a good coping mechanism.

I woke up so hungover, I spent the first half of the day groaning in bed while Fiona made fun of me. To make matters worse, it was uncharacteristically sunny that day, which only made my headache worse. Like I needed another reminder that I can’t hold my liquor. I did start feeling more human after Fiona made me her infamous hangover breakfast (at three in the afternoon, mind you – I was honestly ashamed of myself), but I was still in no shape to drive for three hours. Ergo, I stayed in London for another day.

Snow probably won't even notice I’m twenty-four hours late. I’m not entirely sure he can keep track of the days of the week. I hopped in my car first thing in the morning, knowing I’d be back before he even returned from the moor.

When I pull up in front of his house, however, the Jeep is still here. That’s odd. Maybe it’s his day off? Or maybe Ebb picked him up and they went with her car. They do that sometimes.

I don’t think much of it, as I’m too busy digging his house keys out of my pocket. I unlock the front door, pausing for a moment to enjoy the warmth of the foyer.

Wait. That’s another thing that's fucking weird. Snow never has the heating on. Am I at the wrong house? For a moment I entertain the idea of having slipped into an alternate universe where Snow keeps his home at a decent temperature and doesn’t get up at the crack of dawn.

A more likely scenario, however, is that he finally decided it was too cold, even for him. It's about time really – it’s nearly November.

Simon Snow is lying on the sofa. Asleep.

He looks like death warmed over. He’s wearing that horse hoodie again, with the hood pulled over his head, and his cheeks are tinged feverish red. Some of his curls are sticking to his forehead with sweat. Is he sick? He must be. The extra blankets he has piled up on him are a dead giveaway.

I decide it’s best not to wake him up. I find some Aspirin in the bathroom cabinet and leave them out for him on the coffee table, along with a glass of water. Then I do the dishes that have been piling up in the sink (at least that means he’s been eating). When he wakes up, I don’t want to hear a word about being a bad flatmate.

He’s still not awake by the time I’m done, so I settle on the armchair with my laptop, determined to do some work.

It’s hard not to watch him sleep. Despite being sick, he still looks absolutely gorgeous. I stare at him more than I’d like to admit, usually when he’s not looking. That’s not hard – Snow avoids eye contact like the plague. He’s usually got his eyes fixed up on the sky or the trees or on the spider that lives in the corner of his kitchen. (He’s obsessed with that fucking spider. He calls him Humphrey.)

He’s a bit of a nightmare, honestly. And despite being some fucking ornithology genius, he’s a bit thick when it comes to everything else. The other day, he said _Jane Eyre_ was an author. (I just stared at him.) But when he goes on one of his rants about the birds (or the dragonflies or the carnivorous plants), his eyes light up, and he smiles without even knowing it, and I feel like there’s no air left in the world.

Sometimes, when we’re out on the moor together, he’ll sit on the bonnet of his car and close his eyes, taking in that little bit of sunshine that manages to fight its way through the clouds. It makes his curls look golden and I think to myself, _he outshines the sun._

It’s moments like these that make me realize I’m well and truly fucked. 

He’s stirring and I think he’s about to wake up, so I tear my gaze away from him and pretend to get back to my work. Mere minutes later, I hear his voice.

“Baz. You’re back,” he croaks.

“You look and sound like shit,” I say.

“Yeah, I think I have a cold,” he sighs. I shoot him a look that says _you think?_ “Did you get back last night?”

“No, I got here this morning.”

“This morning?” he sits up, suddenly looking panicked. “What time is it?”

I glance at my watch. “We’re nearing eleven.”

“Fuck, I was supposed to do the patrols today. I have to go!”

“Woah, slow down,” I say, reaching out my hand to stop him, even though he’s probably contagious as fuck. “Snow, I can feel your fever from here. You’re not going anywhere.”

He huffs, but sits back down. All the colour has drained from his face. “I’m fine,” he mutters, looking very much not fine. “I was just out on the moor at night the other day and I probably got a bit chilled. It’s fine.”

“That’s what you get for walking around wearing only that fleece all the time,” I try not to question what he was doing out at night. Probably listening to the foxes or something equally ridiculous. “Call Ebb, have her do the patrols for you. You need to rest.”

He glares at me but picks up his phone anyway.

“I’ll make you some tea,” I say, which only intensifies his glare.

One phone call and one cup of tea later, he’s looking a bit better. I tried offering him some biscuits as well, but he didn’t want any, which was concerning. Snow never turns down food.

“Did you speak to your dad this weekend?” he asks, pulling his legs up on the sofa and hugging them.

“I did. He’s not happy, but there are no updates on the moor situation,” I sigh. I give him a run-down of the conversation with my father, omitting the parts about my sexuality or my mother.

“Huh. So what now?”

“I don’t know. We keep working on the alternatives. There’s a follow-up meeting in three weeks, right?”

“Yeah,” he nods, staring out into space.

“Don’t stress about it, alright Snow?”

“How can I _not_ stress about it, Baz? My whole life is here! I can’t lose this!” he snaps, his voice breaking at the end. I want to hug him, but he’d probably push me away (and he’s ill, but that’s of secondary concern).

“I know. Simon, I know, okay? But you’re sick and you’re in over your head and you should really be resting right now. We’re going to sort it out, yeah? But you need to get better first.”

“ _Are_ we going to sort it out, Baz?” he asks, his blue eyes boring directly into mine. For someone who’s half dead, he sure looks ready to fight right now.

I sigh. I don’t want to fight.

“Yes. Fucking hell, Snow, yes we will. We have a comprehensive appeal to his proposal, yeah? And if that doesn’t work, I’ll go talk to him one on one or we’ll take it to court. There has to be _something_ that would work and we’re going to find it, but we can’t do that if you’re sick and dying so please just lie down and stop stressing about it.”

He’s still staring at me fiercely and for a moment, I think he’s going to swing at me or something. Instead, he just sighs and leans back on the sofa.

“Your father’s an arse,” he mutters, pulling the blankets over himself. “But I suppose you’re right.”

I don’t say anything. A few minutes later, he’s asleep again.

He wakes up again briefly during lunchtime and tells me he needs me to deliver some documents to Ebb, and I figure I’ll actually be useful this time, instead of just sitting there and watching him sleep, so I leave him a note that threatens him with death if he goes out on the moor while I'm gone, then head for Ebb’s clinic. It’s not hard to find - Snow wrote down the address - and while I’m there, she shows me around her clinic and promises she’ll stop by after her shift to bring soup for Simon (which is good because I don’t know how to make soup). 

When I get back from Ebb’s, Snow is no longer on the sofa. Instead, I find him in his room, cooped up on the bed, playing video games.

“I told you not to come in my room,” he says when I open the door.

“I had to make sure you didn’t run off to the moor.”

“I’m not stupid, Baz.”

“Hm, debatable. Are you feeling any better?” I ask. I assume he must be feeling better if he’s sitting upright, playing FIFA.

“Not really,” he shrugs. “But I’m tired of sleeping.”

“How can you be tired of sleeping?” I raise my eyebrows at him. He responds with a shrug and keeps playing his game. For a few moments, I think the conversation is over. I'm starting to back away when he speaks again.

“Do you want to join me?” he asks, pressing pause on his game.

“What, in being a sickly old bastard? No thanks.”

“In FIFA, you twat. I have two controllers.” He digs the other controller out from the bundle of his blankets and holds it up triumphantly.

“Oh. I suck at video games.”

“I’ll feel better if I beat you,” he says, grinning. “And you can bask in the feeling of getting your ass kicked at FIFA by a sickly old bastard.”

“Fuck you,” I sigh, climbing next to him on the bed, because I’m weak and flawed and he looks gorgeous when he smiles and I can’t say no. “I’m only doing this for the sake of your health,” I clarify.

“Whatever you tell yourself, Bazzy.”

“Call me Bazzy again and I’ll kill you before this fucking plague of yours can even try.”

He does end up beating me three times, and he’d probably have made it four if it weren’t for the doorbell.

“I’ll get it,” he says, tossing the controller aside and bolting downstairs with such velocity, one would never think he’s sick. Maybe all those wins really did make him feel better.

“I mean, sure,” I mutter at the empty room, before getting up myself and following him to the front door. I recognize Ebb’s voice before I even see her.

“And make sure to eat it all,” she says sternly.

“Yeah, I will. Don’t worry.”

“Baz!” Ebb calls out to me when she sees me. “Make sure Simon eats the soup.”

“I’ll pour it down his throat if I have to,” I assure her. Snow scrunches up his nose.

“Don’t do that,” he says.

“Sorry, Snow, doctor’s orders.”

“She’s a vet!”

“Just right for you then,” I say, earning myself a jab in the ribs. “Hands to yourself, you contagious prick,” I snap at him in return. 

Ebb watches our interaction with an amused look on her face. “I see you two aren’t bored,” she says.

“Bored? Every moment I spend in this house is torture,” I lament.

“Who knows, you seem to like it since you never leave,” Snow comments.

“Ebb, would you please do me a favour and smack Snow over the head.”

“I can’t, he’s contagious,” Ebb laughs.

“I bet he’s feeling all better since he’s being a cocky little bastard,” I remark.

“I actually feel like a wet sock,” Snow objects.

“My stepmother makes my siblings wear wet socks when they have a fever,” I suddenly remember. “You should try that.”

“You have siblings?” Snow asks, audibly surprised.

“That’s a good idea, Baz. Simon, put on some wet socks and eat your soup. Baz, make sure he does so.”

“Will do,” I say.

“I’m not putting on wet socks,” Snow mutters.

“I’m not putting on wet socks,” he repeats once I close the door behind Ebb. “You have siblings?”

“You’re like a broken record, Snow,” I say, scouring the kitchen cabinets to find a bowl for his soup. “Yes, I have four half-siblings. Eat,” I place the bowl of soup in front of him, but he’s too busy rummaging inside the bag Ebb brought.

“Look, Ebb brought me scones!” he says triumphantly.

“Scones?”

“Yeah, from the pub. She knows they’re my favourite.”

“Eat your soup first,” I say as he starts pulling scones out of the bag. He frowns at me. “You’re no fun.”

“Yeah well,” I pause to take a scone out of the bag. “Such is life. Eat your soup, Snow.”

SIMON

I wake up the next morning feeling ten times better. Baz is already up, sitting at the kitchen table and working on his laptop. (Is me having a cold all it takes for him to finally leave the sofa to me?) He looks up when I come to the kitchen.

“Good morning. Feeling better?”

“Mhm,” I nod. “Might even go to the moor today.”

“Ebb says I shouldn’t let you do that,” he says flatly. I sigh.

“I’m fine, Baz,” I say, fully aware that I still sound like I have ten pounds of cement up my nose (I’m not sure I don’t).

“What were you even doing on the moor at night?” he asks.

“Oh… um, we were looking at owls.”

“Of course you were.”

He resumes typing on his laptop and I turn around to look at him. He’s smiling, kind of like he’s trying not to.

“What are you laughing at?” I snap.

“Nothing. It’s just such a you thing to do. Go out in the middle of the night, probably not wearing a coat, and then get the plague.”

“I _was_ wearing a coat. Never mind that, where were _you_? You were supposed to be back on Monday!”

“I had personal matters to attend to,” he cuts me off. “What’s it to you anyway? I’m sure you enjoyed having the house to yourself for a bit longer.”

“I did,” I lie. “But you said you’d be back on Monday.”

Baz rolls his eyes. “Yeah and then something came up and I couldn’t.”

“You could at least text me next time.” I’m not sure why I’m taking this so personally. I mean, I spent the better part of Monday worrying about him and the tosser doesn’t even want to tell me where he’s been.

“I wasn’t looking at my phone,” he retorts.

“Were you with your girlfriend?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He looks at me like I just accused him of murder. “I don’t have a _girlfriend_ , Snow. Where the fuck did you get that idea?”  
I shrug. “Can’t think of any other reason why you’d forget to look at your phone all day.” I’m a bit surprised he doesn’t have a girlfriend. I mean, he’s pretty fit, as far as blokes go. And he’s got nice hair. He has it in a bun right now, but it looks really good when he lets it down or only puts half of it up. It must be really soft too, because he’s always using this posh soap that makes the bathroom smell like cedar and bergamot.

“There are plenty of reasons not to look at your phone that don’t involve snogging,” he sneers.

“Yeah, well, sorry for implying you have a life,” I say, grabbing my coffee and making a beeline for the sofa. I can still feel Baz’s glare on the back of my neck. I don’t know why he’s so riled up about that comment. I’m a bit relieved he doesn’t have a girlfriend though, just because that means I don’t have to feel bad about him leaving anyone behind in London to help us with the moor.

But then I guess it’s his father’s fault we’re even in this situation, so I wouldn’t feel that bad even if he had a girlfriend. Or maybe I would. I don’t know.

I don’t actually want to think about the prospect of him having a girlfriend.

I eat my breakfast and go back upstairs to shower and grab my laptop. If I’m out sick, I might as well work on my dissertation.

However, when I get back downstairs I see Baz has moved from the kitchen table to the sofa. I sigh. I thought maybe he decided that being sick would warrant me getting the sofa today but apparently not. Whatever, I can deal with the armchair as well.

When I open my laptop, I have an email from Davy. That almost never happens. Maybe he finally got back to me on one of my emails about my dissertation. I open it eagerly.

From: david.mage@wicn.uk

To: simon.snow@wicn.uk

Subject: Birding at Morecambe

Hello Simon!

I know you’re busy working on your dissertation, but the ornithology department is getting ready to do its annual birding expedition at Morecambe Bay and we’ve had two spots open up due to Andrew and Betty going on maternity leave early. I was thinking you’d want to come with instead. We would be meeting on Monday in Morecambe, Lancashire and spending a few days on Morecambe Bay, then moving a bit more south to a village called Sunderland Point, where we’d be staying the remainder of the week, working along the shores of the river Lune. Costs are covered by the Institute. Please let me know if you’d like to attend, so we know whether or not to save you a spot.

I hope your dissertation is coming along well.

Kindest regards,

Professor David Mage, PhD  
Head of ornithology department at the Watford Institute for Conservation of Nature

I look up from my laptop, grinning. I almost never get invited to these things. And they have two spots, which means maybe Baz can come with and talk to other people from WICN, which would help with the appeal.

“Hey, Baz?” I call out. He looks at me from the sofa, sneering. “Do you want to go to Lancashire next week?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, sorry for the late update! I had exams and writer's block and life and oh god  
> hopefully chapter 7 should be up sooner!  
> Thank you for all your kind comments, really, I'm shit at responding to them but reading them makes my day!!!
> 
> [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really don’t know what to expect from this whole excursion. I’ve met some people from WICN who’ve come to the moor once or twice, but none of them were ornithologists. I wonder if the other ornithologists are anything like Simon – full of weird facts and focus and excitement – or are they just a bunch of serious faces with binoculars?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading this!

SIMON

Baz is sitting in my chair in the office, legs outstretched on my desk, looking at his phone. I’d snap at him to at least take his shoes off, but then again my desk is already dirty enough as it is.

His hair is pulled halfway up and he’s wearing a hoodie. I’ve never seen Baz wear a hoodie before. It’s just a plain black hoodie, a bit too big for him, but it looks expensive. But then again, everything Baz puts on looks expensive. He could probably make my ratty old WICN fleece look like high fashion.

I try to shake the mental image of him wearing my clothes out of my head. I don’t need another reminder of how he makes everything look good. I need to pack.

I turn to the side of the office where we keep field equipment. I can’t find the lens cleaner anywhere and we need it for the binoculars. I make a mental note to properly organize this place once winter comes around and I have less work on the moor, even though it’s a moot point – the office will just get cluttered again in the summer. That’s when a lot more ecologists come to the moor – entomologists, herpetologists and botanists – and they _always_ forget at least one piece of their equipment here. We have cupboards full of ethanol jars, butterfly nets and pressed plants. Maybe I should show one of the used ethanol jars to Baz – entomologists use them to store their findings and I’m sure Baz would be horrified by what’s inside. 

Maybe I shouldn’t do that. Instead, I grab a pressed piece of fern from one of the cupboards and take it over to him.

“Smell this,” I say, holding out the plant to him. He raises his eyebrows at me.

“Is it poisonous?”

I roll my eyes. “No. Just smell it.” Baz sighs and takes his legs off the desk, reaching over to take the fern from my hand.

“It smells like lemons,” he observes, looking at the fern with his eyebrows furrowed. “What kind of witchcraft is this?”

“It’s the lemon-scented fern,” I beam.

“Well, whoever named that sure had lots of creativity,” he passes the fern back to me. “Where did you get it?”

“It was in the cupboard. I reckon one of the botanists left it behind.”

Baz furrows his eyebrows again. “This place is so weird,” he mutters. I pretend to hit him over the head with the fern and he swats his hand at it, like it’s an annoying mosquito. He’s taken to calling us weird ever since I first brought up Lancashire. 

“Who plans a birding trip when they’re due for a baby?” he asked when I explained to him how there are now two spots available. “You people are so weird. Oh, I’m about to have a baby, better go to the biggest shithole in England to look at birds. Who does that?”

“I mean in their defence, the baby was one month premature,” I said. “They didn’t know it was going to happen just yet.” 

“Exactly! That’s why you don’t make plans when you’re eight months pregnant! It might come out any minute!” He paused then. “Is the baby okay?”

“Yeah, they said she’s fine.” At that point, I had already texted Andrew and Betty to congratulate them on their new-born daughter. “And I’m sure premature babies are not _that_ common.”

Baz shrugged. “Two of my siblings were premature. _I_ was premature.”

“You were?” I asked, feeling weird about this information.

“For a few weeks, yeah. According to my father, at least. You?”

I shrugged. I don’t know anything about my birth or my parents, but I didn’t want to discuss this topic with Baz.

“So, I take it you don’t want to come to Lancashire?” I asked instead.

“Oh no, count me in.”

So now we’re here, in the office, gathering the final things for our trip to the North. Or at least, I am. Baz has taken to looking at me with an amused look on his face while I rummage around the cupboards.

“What are you looking for anyway?” he asks, leaning forward so his elbows are resting on his knees.

“Lens cleaner,” I say. “For the binoculars.”

“Oh, you mean this thing?” he points at the small blue bottle next to him. It was on the desk all along and I want to smack myself.

“Yes, this thing. Why didn’t you tell me it was here?”

“Do I look like I know what you’re looking for? Are we good to go now?”

“Yes,” I say, passing him a stack of field guides to carry to the car. “We’re good to go.”

BAZ

It’s a two hour drive to Lancashire. I’m driving and Snow is staring out the window. I think he might fall asleep at any moment. I don’t know why I agreed to come to Lancashire – I _hate_ Lancashire. But I hate the thought of being alone in Snow’s house for a whole week or going back to London more.

I don’t know why I don’t want to go back to London either. It’s not that there’s anything _wrong_ with it, but the thought of going back to my father’s office building makes me shudder. After this is all over, I’m not entirely sure I’ll go back.

I mean, I will. I have to. But I’m not entirely sure I’ll _want_ to go back.

I like being here. In the village. With Snow. I like watching the birds in his garden while I eat breakfast in the morning, I like taking a walk to Ebb’s clinic and having a chat with her. Hell, I even like going to the moor with Simon.

I like Simon. More than I’d care to admit.

Which is a bit of a bad move on my part, really, but I should’ve seen it coming. He’s clever, honest, courageous and annoyingly handsome to top it off. I’ve memorised his mannerisms – how he tugs on his curls when he’s nervous, how he bites his lip when he’s thinking, how he looks down and smiles when he’s embarrassed. It’s adorable.

Unfortunately for me, I’m also almost one hundred percent positive he’s straight. I mean, it’s not like we’ve ever discussed the topic of sexuality – he doesn’t even know I’m gay – but I just don’t get a queer vibe from him. Or sometimes I do, but that’s just wishful thinking.

Not that I should rely on my own intuition anyway – I was never particularly good at telling who’s gay and who’s not.

Even if he was queer, it’s not like he could ever feel the same way about me. And besides, what could even happen between us? If we win the negotiations against my Father, I’ll go back to London anyway. If we lose…

I don’t want to think about what would happen if we lose – but Snow would probably never speak to me again.

I grip the steering wheel, trying to shake the feelings of hurt and anger from my head.

We can’t lose.

Snow is quiet for most of the ride and only speaks once we’re driving through Lancaster.

“Did you know I used to live here?” he says.

“In Lancaster? My condolences.”

“Hey! Lancaster’s not that bad!”

“You’re right, it’s worse.”

“You’re just saying that because you grew up in London,” he frowns.

“I grew up in Hampshire.”

“Did you really?”

“Yes,” I roll my eyes. “So, what did you do in Lancaster, Snow?”

He shrugs. Snow shrugs so often, I wouldn’t be surprised if he develops a chronic shoulder injury when he’s older. “I took a bus to Morecambe a lot. To look at birds,” he says. That makes me laugh.

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know. I only moved here when I was eleven so… twelve or thirteen, I guess?”

“You started young,” I comment. I try to picture young Snow, running around the beach in Morecambe with a set of binoculars too big for him. The mental image is far too much for my feelings. “Are your parents ornithologists as well or what?”

I can see him tense up in the passenger seat. “Um, no. No, I uh… got into birds myself. When I was little, I was really obsessed with dinosaurs and I wanted to be a dinosaur scientist, but then I found out they were extinct.”

“How can you be obsessed with dinosaurs without knowing they’re extinct?” I ask, smiling.

“I thought the book was lying! I thought the Queen hid them in the jungle because they were too dangerous to live in Britain!” he defends himself.

“Oh my god, Snow, that’s adorable,” I laugh and then blush after I realize what I’d just said. I glance over at Snow, but he’s staring out the window and I can’t see his face.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

“I can’t believe you built a whole conspiracy theory just because you didn’t want to believe dinosaurs were extinct.”

“It sounded like a good idea at the time. Anyway, then I learned birds evolved from dinosaurs and I thought that’s like the next best thing.”

“You could’ve always gone with palaeontology,” I offer, hoping that my voice doesn’t give away that I’m absolutely melting on the inside right now. Snow makes a face.

“Palaeontology gives me an existential crisis. Plus, I want to explore _living_ animals.”

I laugh. “Okay, fair. I used to be obsessed with dinosaurs too and I’m not a palaeontologist now either,” I say. Simon perks up.

“You liked dinosaurs too?”

“Yes, Snow, I was also a child once,” I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling as well.

“Which one was your favourite?”

“The T-rex.”

Simon scoffs. “Basic.”

“Shut up, Snow. And open Google Maps. I have no idea where this hotel is.”

I really don’t know what to expect from this whole excursion. I’ve met some people from WICN who’ve come to the moor once or twice, but none of them were ornithologists. I wonder if the other ornithologists are anything like Simon – full of weird facts and focus and excitement – or are they just a bunch of serious faces with binoculars?  
Simon is tapping his fingers on his leg now, excited as we pull up in front of the hotel. It doesn’t look like a hotel – it just looks like a bigger stony house amongst the smaller stony houses – but Simon recognizes the people standing in front of it.

“That’s it,” he announces, even though I know that’s it because Google Maps says so.

The two men and the woman standing in front of the hotel don’t look anything like Simon. They look more like the conservation ecologist prototype that the two men in my Father’s office described on the day I first met Simon – cargo trousers, army green jackets, one of them even has a sunhat despite the sky being as sunny as you’d expect English weather in November to be, which is not at all.

And here I thought Snow had a terrible taste in fashion. (He doesn’t, really, it’s just the purple fleece that’s terrible.) (Otherwise, his fashion sense consists mostly of perpetually muddy rolled up jeans, various hoodies and sweatshirts, half of which bear slogans like _“2017 Heron Ringing”_ or something to that effect, and that grey knitted hat. Oh, and a black jacket that I’ve made him start wearing now that he got over his cold.)

Snow is getting out of the car now, waving at the group of ornithologists. They’re all excited to see him and the woman even hugs him.

I sigh and get out of the car as well, putting my hands in my pockets as I approach the group. I am a bit nervous to meet with all those people – WICN people tend to glare at me, mostly because of my father. But I think at least Simon trusts me now and I hope that means something.

Snow sees me and waves me closer.

“Oh, and this is Baz, he’s the one writing an appeal for the building permits,” Snow explains. The woman and the man with the sunhat look pleasantly surprised by this information, but the other man narrows his eyes at me. I actually recognize him – not from the moor, but from the graduation photo Simon has in his bedroom. The man has the same moustache.

“Baz, these are Mr Bell, Miss Possibelf and professor Mage.” Professor Mage? Isn’t that Snow’s PhD mentor? He’s the one from the graduation photo – the one who’s squinting at me.

I shake hands with all three of them and then another car pulls up in front of the hotel.

“Oh, that must be Gareth,” Miss Possibelf says. I see Simon make a face out of the corner of my eye and I nearly burst out laughing. I’ll definitely be asking him about this drama later.

“Baz, shall we get our bags?” he asks.

“Aren’t you going to say hi to your friends?” I raise my eyebrows at him. His face flushes and he shoots me a glare.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Three people exit a car – once again two men and one woman, but they’re staggeringly younger. Hell, are they even Simon’s age?

“I’ll go check us in,” Simon mutters, but it’s already too late. A short boy with chestnut brown hair and a ridiculous belt buckle is approaching us fast.

“You won’t believe the ride we’ve had! We saw five buzzards! Oh, and Rhys saw a merlin! Rhys, tell them!”

The other boy, taller and lankier, with stark red hair approaches now and shrugs.

“I saw a merlin,” he says simply. The belt buckle boy then spots Simon and practically jumps.

“Oh, Simon! Or, err, Mr Snow!”

Simon looks pained. “Gareth, just Simon will do.”

“Well, okay, I was thinking, maybe I want to study owls? You have owls at the moor right? I could come there this summer, I reckon my parents would let me. How do you even see an owl? Do you need special binoculars? Or night goggles? Where do you even buy those? Are they expensive?” Gareth rambles on and I have to bite my lip to not laugh at Snow’s expression. I mean, he looks properly out of his depth.

“Um, Gareth, can I just get settled in and we’ll discuss this later?”

“Oh, yeah, of course! Let me know what room you’re staying in!”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll do that,” Snow mumbles as he pushes past me, and I think I’m the only one who hears him. “You,” he turns to me once we’re a bit farther from the crowd. “can stop looking so damn amused now.”

“I just think it’s cute that Gareth has a crush on you,” I say as I pull my suitcase out of the boot. Snow sighs.

“He wants me to be his diploma mentor. And I mean, it’s good that he’s ambitious, but he has a new idea _every month_. Besides, I’m even not qualified enough to be his mentor.”

I stop in my tracks. “I’m sorry, Snow, but in what universe are you not qualified enough to be someone’s mentor? You can recognize just about every bird on sight.”

He shrugs and I see a pink tinge spreading across his cheeks, consequently making me blush as well. “I’m not an owl expert,” he mumbles.

“Right, you’re just an expert in watching owls and then getting a nasty cold,” I remark.

“Are you _ever_ going to let that go?”

“Nope. Check us in, bird boy.”

“I hate you,” he mutters, stepping up to the check-in counter. I lean against one of the walls and flash him a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter and I hope you enjoyed reading it even though nothing happens  
> This is technically supposed to be merged with chapter 8 so I'll try to get chapter 8 up tomorrow, maybe even later today if I'm feeling wild
> 
> As always, thank you for your kind comments <3  
> [here's my tumblr if you maybe wanna check that out](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire)
> 
> Also can we just take a moment of silence for Baz's gaydar? that thing is BROKEN


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come look at this,” he says quietly.  
> “What? You can’t just sneak up on me like that!” I object but follow him anyway. “What is it?” I ask once he stops. We’re about fifty meters away from the group, overlooking a big, sandy plain.  
> “Look over there,” he says. I follow his fingers and see a group of birds in the distance, picking at sand with their long, slender beaks.  
> “Are those…?”  
> “Curlews,” Simon confirms, smiling from ear to ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, chapter 8 or chapter 7 part 2 if you will  
> Now listen... don't get your hopes up just yet when you read the first line of this chapter
> 
> anyway thank you [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading this

SIMON

There’s only one bed. I should’ve seen this coming. Andrew and Betty are married; of course they booked a couples’ room. And of course, there were no other rooms available, so we had to go with the one they originally booked.

I mean, it’s not like it’s an issue. I’ve gone camping so many times in my university days, I’ve gotten used to sharing my sleeping space with other people. One time, I had to share a one person tent with two other blokes.

But those blokes weren’t Baz.

Baz, who’s currently standing next to me, looking at the room like he can’t decide whether to be horrified or amused.

“So,” he starts. “Which one of us is going to take the floor, Snow?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, stepping forward to drop my suitcase next to the window. I would suddenly much rather be outside in the parking lot right now dealing with Gareth than having this conversation with Baz. He just raises his eyebrows and drops his suitcase on the other side of the bed. I guess that’s settled then.

He looks tense. He’s biting his lip as he unzips his suitcase and I have no idea what he has to be nervous about. Has he never shared a bed with his mates before?

Honestly, that sounds just like Baz. His mates are probably all rich enough to each afford a king-sized bed at a five star hotel. He must be one of those people who treats bed sharing as a thing between couples only.

But he said he didn’t have a girlfriend, so I don’t see where the issue is. And he did climb in my bed with no hesitation when I asked him to play FIFA with me.

A mortifying thought flashes through my head then. What if he sleeps naked?

No, this is Baz. He’s practically married to his sweaters and blankets. He wears a coat on a sunny day. I know I run hot and don’t really like dressing warm, but Baz is on the complete other end of the spectrum. I think he’d rather die than part ways with his scarf and I’m pretty sure his bed at home has at least three blankets. He probably wears socks to bed.

He’s probably just posh and has never had to share a room, let alone a bed, with anyone else in his life. Yeah, that makes sense.

We don’t do any proper fieldwork on the first day here. By the time everyone arrives, it’s already afternoon, so we just settle for taking a walk on the beach and observing the birds there.

The group mostly consists of people who work directly at the ornithology department in London, and the people who work at Morecambe the same way I work at the moor. There are three ecology undergrad students here as well – Gareth, Rhys and Philippa – who are just very involved with ornithology and usually tag along on these trips. I was the same when I was their age, but I hardly get invited anymore because I work way out in the middle of nowhere. 

It’s not an ideal day for fieldwork anyway. It’s cold and windy with the occasional raindrop. Baz is trailing a few steps behind the group, with his hands pushed in the pockets of his coat. I join him.

“Are you running away from Gareth again?” he asks. I roll my eyes.

“No. You just looked lonely.”

“I’m fine, Snow. Go be a bird nerd with your people.”

“I can be a bird nerd here. See that bird?” I ask, pointing at a black and white bird with an orange beak and legs.

“Yes?”

“That’s an oystercatcher. It doesn’t actually eat oysters.”

“What the fuck?” Baz laughs. “This is the opposite of that lemon fern. The name is just misleading.”

BAZ

It’s even colder here than it is at the moor, if that’s even possible. Snow is going back and forth between talking to other ornithologists and talking to me. I told him he can just stay with his people, but he keeps coming back. Eventually the lady – Miss Possibelf – comes by and starts explaining the importance of this area to me. She’s nice enough and I enjoy talking to her. We arrange to meet at the hotel lobby later in the evening to work on the appeal. Then someone spots a flock of birds – lapwings, I’m told – and they all pore over them for a bit. I observe the birds as well; they have a funny tuft of black feathers sticking up from the tops of their heads, which I’m sure has a scientific name, and they look slightly concerned. I’m watching one of them dig its beak in the mud when I feel someone’s hands grip my shoulders. I turn around to see Snow standing in front of me, his eyes glistening with excitement.

“Come look at this,” he says quietly.

“What? You can’t just sneak up on me like that!” I object but follow him anyway. “What is it?” I ask once he stops. We’re about fifty meters away from the group, overlooking a big, sandy plain.

“Look over there,” he says. I follow his fingers and see a group of birds in the distance, picking at sand with their long, slender beaks.

“Are those…?”

“Curlews,” Simon confirms, smiling from ear to ear. He’s like a child on Christmas morning and it’s making my heart flutter. “They come here in the winter. I don’t know if they’re the ones from the moor, though. I’d have to see their rings, if they even have them.”

“Can we move closer?” I ask.

“I’d rather not. It might disturb them and they’re eating right now,” Simon shakes his head. We stand in the cold, watching the curlews in silence. They’re feeding, sticking their long beaks almost entirely in the sand and then doing this weird routine to get the food up so they can swallow it.

“What do they eat?” I ask.

“Right now, they’re probably hunting for marine worms and shrimp, but back at the moor they mostly eat earthworms, insects, berries and seeds. That’s the thing about curlews – they’re really not picky.”

“You have that in common with them,” I remark.

“Excuse me, I would never eat a marine worm. They’re terrifying. Did you know some of them can bite you?”

“What? Worms can bite you?” I am definitely never going to the beach again.

“Yeah, they have metal teeth. It’s proper horrifying. They’re venomous as well, but for humans it’s like a bee sting. Not that they attack humans, though…”

“I don’t believe you. Venomous worms with metal teeth?”

“Yeah, I’ll show you,” he says, pulling out his phone.

“Wait, Snow, if such monstrosity exists, I would actually prefer not to see it,” I say as he opens Google. Snow shrugs.

“I’ll print out a picture and leave it in your bedroom.”

“You will do no such thing.”

“Under the blanket. Waiting for you,” he looks up at me, grinning.

“I will make your death look like an accident.” I mumble, trying to ignore the blush spreading across my cheeks. It’s hard not to get flustered when he’s smiling at me like that. It’s hard not to think about kissing him. 

I can’t believe I’m going to have to sleep in the same bed as this imbecile tonight. My life is a joke. A cruel, gay joke.

SIMON

Unfortunately, I can’t avoid Gareth forever. He finds me after dinner and insists we work on ideas for his diploma, so I bring my laptop down to the hotel lobby to help him outline his thesis. My heart’s not in it; I know he’ll scrap it next month when he finds a new species he’d rather do his diploma on.

I wonder if Davy feels the same way about me as I feel about Gareth. I’ve been trying to talk to my mentor all day, but he keeps avoiding me. Besides, I don’t think he’s happy that Baz is here. He keeps sending him weird looks. 

Speaking of Baz, he’s also in the lobby, sitting with Miss Possibelf. They’re leaning over his laptop and Baz is typing so I figure they must be working on the appeal together. That’s good.

They seem to be having much more fun than I’m having with Gareth. Miss Possibelf is explaining something and Baz is laughing along.

Baz looks nice when he laughs – it makes him look less like a walking quarter-life crisis and more like a human being. When something is really funny, the corners of his eyes crinkle and then he immediately looks down, like he doesn’t want you to know he’s capable of genuine happiness.

He’s not looking down now, so I guess it’s not that funny. He turns his head then and his eyes bore directly into mine. I quickly turn away, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I pretend to look immersed into what Gareth is saying, partially because I want to pretend that just didn’t happen, partially because I think I still feel Baz’s eyes on me.

But when I look back at Baz – just to be sure, just to check – he’s no longer looking at me. Instead, he’s staring down at his table. 

BAZ

I’m almost positive I caught Snow staring at me earlier. He looked away too soon for me to be sure, though. And his face turned red.

I wish I knew what that meant. Probably nothing – he might’ve been just zoning out. He was talking to Gareth, so I wouldn’t put it behind him.

They’ve now been joined by the other two undergrads – Rhys and Philippa, as Snow has told me – and they seem to be having some sort of a study group. Or at least, Simon is explaining something on his laptop and the rest are nodding along. I think Rhys is taking notes. I have no idea what Snow means by not being qualified enough to be a mentor. Just looking at him now, he seems brilliant.

Just looking at him now means I’m completely unable to focus on my own work.

“Should we call it a night?” Miss Possibelf asks, bringing me back to reality.

“Pardon?”

“You seem tired. Better get some rest and continue this tomorrow, what do you say?” What I want to say is that I’m more than a bit embarrassed to be caught not paying attention, because I was too busy being gay. This never happens.

“Yeah, I suppose. Thank you for your time,” I nod. In retrospect, the sooner I get out of this lobby, the better… even if it means going back to the hotel room I share with Snow. And the bed…  
I don’t know how I’m going to survive this trip.

“Thank you for doing this to help the moor,” Miss Possibelf says. “It really means a great deal to all of us.”

“It’s the right thing to do,” I shrug. I feel weird taking compliments about my own work, since this whole ordeal wouldn’t even exist if it wasn’t for my family. And according to Snow, this isn’t the first area my father has tried taking from WICN.

Miss Possibelf nods. “It is. Your heart’s in the right place, Basilton.”

SIMON

When I get back to the room, Baz is already in his pyjamas, lounging on the bed and scrolling on his phone. I was right about him – he does wear socks to bed. I wonder if he’s capable of thermoregulation.

I usually sleep shirtless, but I’m not sure Baz would appreciate me crawling into bed half naked (or he’d throw another snit about how it’s no wonder I get colds), so I dig an old T-shirt out of my suitcase and head to the bathroom to change. He’s still on his phone when I get back.

“What are you doing?” I ask, sitting on the bed next to him.

“Instagram,” he says, not taking his eyes off his phone.

“You have an Instagram? Can I follow you?”

“It’s Baz dot Pitch.”

“Why do you go by Pitch?” I ask. “You also said you’re more of a Pitch when you moved here. What does it mean?”

“My family dynamic is very complicated, Snow, are you sure you want to hear about it?”

“Hit me.” I shrug. He stares at me for a while before finally speaking.

“Pitch was my mother’s last name,” he says slowly, still staring at me. “I started going by it when I was sixteen, since that’s when my father cut me from the Grimm family will.”

“Wait what? Your father’s cut you from the will?” I ask, shocked. Is it because he’s helping us with the moor? I had no idea that the consequences would be so severe for him.

“I mean, he's written me back in now, but yeah, there was a solid five year period when I was banished from the family.”

“Why?” I ask, not realizing it might be a very personal question. “I mean, you don’t have to answer…”

Baz shrugs me off. “It’s fine, Snow, I might as well tell you. I’m gay and my father wasn’t exactly fond of that when he found out, so he kicked me out.”

“Wait, what? You’re gay?” I’m a bit surprised by that information. But then again, it makes sense – the way he never wants to talk about his relationships or how offended he looked when I suggested he had a girlfriend once. “You could’ve told me, you know. I’m cool with it.”

“It was never the topic of our conversations,” Baz cuts me off.

“But wait, if he kicked you out, how come you work for him?” I don’t know if I’m going too far. Baz looks like he wants me to shut up, but I can’t help myself.

“He felt remorse for his actions,” he says coldly.

“Yeah, okay, I got that. But why did you go back? If I got kicked out for being gay, I would never go back.” I’ve definitely taken it too far now. Baz glares at me like he wants to hit me, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips a thin line. Then he sighs and his face relaxes.

“My mother died when I was five. I was too young to remember her that well, but I know she wouldn’t like it if we were fighting,” he says quietly and I wished I never asked. But then again, I’m still angry about Malcolm kicking Baz out. I mean, how could he do that? What kind of a shitty father kicks his son out for _any_ reason? His mother’s wishes or not, Baz should’ve _never_ gone back after that.

“I’m sure she wouldn’t have liked to see your dad kick you out either,” I remark.

“Yeah, well, that’s on him,” Baz says, his voice tight.

“I’m just saying, you don’t have to do things just because you think they would please others,” I shrug.

“You should talk, Snow, you’re the fucking family expert, aren’t you? I’ve never even heard you _mention_ your parents!” he finally snaps. I just stare at him.

“Right. Right, I’m sorry. It’s not my place,” I stammer, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

“Exactly,” Baz huffs, and gets back to his phone. I want to disappear. Is it too late to go back to the moor or someplace else where I wouldn’t have to share a room with a royally pissed off Baz? Can I reel this conversation back?

“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Really. And I’m sorry you had to go through that whole thing with your dad.”

“It’s fine, Snow.”

“Are you mad at me?” I ask, feeling stupid. Really, really stupid. Baz sighs.

“No, I’m not mad at you, I’m just annoyed.”

“Right. I’m sorry.”

“Please stop apologizing,” he says, his voice a shade softer than before. We sit in silence for a few moments and I still want to disappear.

“Out of curiosity though, what’s the deal with your parents? Every time I mention them, you freeze up like a child who got caught stealing candy. Do you not get on with them?” he asks then. I bite my lip. I don’t know if I want to start this conversation now, but then again, he’s told me about his family. I might as well tell him about the lack of mine. “You don’t have to answer,” he quickly adds when he sees my reaction.

“No, it’s okay. I uh… I grew up in care. Never knew my parents,” I mumble.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Baz says. He does sound sorry. I shake my head. I don’t like it when people feel sorry for me.

“It’s fine.”

“No, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Baz, it’s fine. We’re even now, yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay,” he says. “This whole conversation is depressing as fuck.”

That makes me laugh. I’m not sure why – maybe I’m just relieved he’s not angry anymore. “I’ll give you that,” I say. He sets his phone on the bedside table and sinks back into the pillow.

“Tell me some obscure bird fact, Snow. Lighten my spirits.”

“Owls are actually idiots,” I say. He scoffs. 

BAZ

Sleeping in the same bed as Simon is actually a nightmare. Not because he’s trashing about or hogging all the blankets – in that aspect, he seems like a decent person to share a bed with. He stays on his side of the bed, his knees pulled up to his chest and he only snores a little bit.

It’s not his snoring that’s keeping me awake.

I can’t stop thinking about him telling me that he grew up in care. My heart breaks for him – I can’t imagine what he must have felt like growing up as a child, knowing someone’s just left him. Just thinking about it makes me want to roll over to his side and hug him tightly.

That’s the other issue that’s keeping me awake.

He’s so warm and he’s so close and I’m afraid if I fall asleep, I’ll wake up on his side of the bed, cuddling him.

I’m not ready to deal with that humiliation. And Snow knows I’m gay now. He’ll put two and two together and that’ll be the end of our friendship.

But he’s so warm. I can feel his heat, even on my side of the bed, and I’m fighting every urge not to scoot a bit farther back and press my back against his. I wonder what it would feel like, waking up in his arms, feeling his warmth against my back. And then I get stuck thinking about his arms. And his shoulders…

I sigh and bury my face in my pillow.

That’s never going to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be the bed sharing chapter but I got carried away with fieldwork and tragic backstories. Oh well, we'll get 'em next time! (yes this is a warning because if you think this last scene is all of the bed sharing you get, you are sorely mistaken)  
> Also the worms they are talking about are called bloodworms, now you don't want to google that, but actually if you do, Brave Wilderness did an awesome youtube video about them.  
> Why am I still talking? Anyway here's [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire)
> 
> As always, thank you for all your kind comments!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You stole my pillow,” he says.  
> “That’s no excuse to spoon me, Snow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading

SIMON

Here, I don’t have to wake up nearly as early as I usually do back at home, but old habits die hard. It’s unfortunate, because breakfast starts at seven and I’m absolutely starving, but I still have over an hour to kill before that. I wish I'd brought some of my own food with me…

But then again, that’d wake up Baz. He’s still asleep, bundled up on his side of the bed, hugging his pillow.

Huh. I’d never thought of him as the pillow-hugging type. I’d never thought of Baz as the hugging-anything type. He seems like the kind of person who’d recoil in horror if anyone tried to hug him – but then again I’ve never seen anyone try. The closest occasion was one time, when Ebb stopped by for tea and she reached over to ruffle Baz’s hair. He looked just about ready to kill her then, but I think he was pretending because his eyes had that spark in them that he only gets when he’s amused.

His hair is a mess now, strewn around him like a black halo. Before I can stop myself, I reach out to touch it, then stop, mortified, as soon as I realize what I’m doing. I wait for Baz to stir, to wake up, but he doesn’t budge. His breathing is still even. I twist the ends of his hair around my fingers.

It’s just as smooth and soft as I imagined it to be. I sort of wish I could run my hand through it, just to feel it slip between my fingers, but then Baz would definitely wake up.

He stirs, and I quickly pull my hand back, expecting him to wake up and snap at me for touching his hair. Instead, he just curls further into his pillow.

Right, I’m being ridiculous. I carefully get out of bed and pull on a hoodie.

Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll find some food somewhere.

BAZ

Snow is not here when I wake up. He left his phone on his bedside table too, so his alarm woke me up and I snapped at him to turn it off three times before I realized he wasn't even in the room.

I groan. My neck hurts from sleeping in a weird position (I settled for hugging my pillow so that I wouldn’t accidentally hug Snow), and I didn’t get nearly enough sleep to be dealing with this bullshit.

Maybe I should go back to sleep. The WICN people are leaving to do fieldwork after breakfast, but they hardly need me for that. I could sleep in. Now that Snow’s not here, I can really stretch out. And the sheets smell like him… Yeah, I could go for a lie-in right now.

Except the moment I close my eyes again, Snow barges back in the room. I groan again. He’s absolutely incapable of walking quietly.

“Oh. You’re awake.”

“Only because _someone_ forgot their phone in the room,” I mutter. “Why does your alarm sound like a nuclear missile warning?”

“You need something strong to get you up at five am. Sleep well?” he asks, digging around his suitcase. He throws a pair of jeans on the bed, followed by boxers and socks. I look away, a blush spreading across my cheeks. Right, so we have an issue with boxers now. Great.

“No. You snore.”

“I do not!” he objects.

“You very well do,” I say, stretching out my legs so that I push his clothes off the bed. He glares at me.

“How long have you been awake for?” he asks.

“Mm… five minutes?”

“Five minutes,” he repeats, picking up his clothes. “And you’re already an arse.”

“You know what they say, Snow. Early bird catches the worm. You know a lot about birds, don’t you?”

“It’s seven am. You’re a late bird.”

I throw a pillow at him. “Shut up.” 

I didn’t expect ornithology fieldwork to look like this – sitting in a car with Snow and another older man called Barry, looking at birds (well, I expected the looking at birds part). Apparently, it’s better to birdwatch if you’re in a car, since birds recognize it as an inanimate object and aren’t scared off by it. At least that’s what Snow told me. Then he threw a pair of binoculars and a field guide at me and told me this doesn’t require any special education. I beg to differ. I absolutely suck at birdwatching – or maybe it’s just that they’re way better at it than me.

I end up stretched across the backseat, flipping through the field guides.

“Do we have those in England?” I ask, turning the book to show a picture of a brightly coloured bird to Snow.

“Uh,” he turns around in his seat to look at the picture. “No, we don’t.”

“I figured,” I say. “It looks way too exotic for England.”

“Which one?” Barry asks, his eyes still glued to the binoculars.

“The bee-eater,” Snow says.

“Oh yeah, pity. Although we did have a few of them nesting here in 2017, remember, Simon? You were just a student back then, but you still tagged along when we went to see them.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t miss bee-eaters for the world,” Simon shrugs.

“Do they actually eat bees?” I ask.

“Oh yeah. Bees, wasps, hornets, dragonflies, you name it,” Barry says.

“Don’t they get stung?”

“No, they remove the stinger before they eat the bee. They sort of bash it against a branch or a rock to get it out. It’s quite clever of them, actually,” Simon explains.

“That sounds violent,” I say, looking back at the bee-eater’s picture in the book.

“Mhm,” Simon mutters. I’m fully aware he’s still looking at me from his seat. I look back up from the book and raise my eyebrows at him and he quickly looks away, flustered.

“Hey, Simon, could you write this down? Redshank, ringed C73 left and green on the right leg,” Barry says, still looking through the binoculars, completely oblivious to whatever that whole scene was.

“Um, yeah,” Snow fumbles to find his pen. “Yeah, sure.”

SIMON

In the evening, everyone gathers outside on the hotel porch. We spent the day divided into smaller groups, and now everybody’s having drinks and talking about the day’s finds. A few people have brought out their laptops and are working on migration patterns, but mostly, it’s just good fun. We’ll get to writing reports once we get home.

Baz is standing a bit farther from the crowd, leaning against the wooden fence with a glass of wine next to him. I approach him.

“You should talk to people, you know,” I say. He looks up from his phone and wrinkles his nose.

“It reeks of cigarette smoke over there,” he says. “I quit last year, so I don’t want to get a taste for it again.”

“Really? You used to smoke?” I ask with my eyebrows raised.

“I was seventeen. We all make mistakes,” he says, taking a sip of his wine.

“That we do,” I nod. “When I was seventeen, I broke some bloke’s nose.” That makes Baz laugh.

“What did he do to deserve such treatment? Did he say birds were lame?”

“No, he uh… bullied some younger kids at the care home. I asked him to stop and when he didn’t, I broke his nose,” I shrug. I don’t really like talking about care.

“Oh,” Baz says, looking shocked. “Well in that case, the twat had it coming.”

I smile. “Yeah, he did.”

Baz’s phone rings then. He looks at the screen and sighs. “Brilliant, just what I needed. Excuse me,” he says, lifting the phone up to his ear. “Hello, father.”

Oh. He’s talking to his dad. I mean, I guess I could’ve guessed it by his facial expression – but then again Baz always looks sort of annoyed. I turn my head slightly, hoping to catch some of their conversation.

“And I told you already, I have work here to do!” he says. A pause. “Yes, I’ll be there.”

Be where? Where is he going? I open my mouth to ask, but Baz holds up his finger, signalling me to be quiet. A few minutes pass without him saying anything. Is his father really taking so long to speak?

“I just don’t think it’s the best approach to the situation,” Baz finally says. “And you know-” he falls quiet again. “No, it’s nothing like that!” he snaps, annoyed. What is going on? “Not that that’s any of your business by the way. Or Fiona’s. Goodnight!” he hangs up the phone.

“What’s going on? Where are you going?” I explode.

“Nothing. Nowhere. He wants me to come back to London and I told him I’ll be there for the meeting.”

“What meeting?”

“ _The_ meeting, Snow.” He still sounds annoyed.

“Oh. That meeting,” I mumble. There’s a follow up meeting for the building permits in two weeks in which we’re supposed to discuss the appeal. To say I’m dreading it would be an understatement.

“Didn’t realize you were going to be there.”

“Where else am I supposed to be?”

“That’s fair,” I shrug. “What else did he say?”

“The usual. How I’m taking too long, how I’m betraying the family, et cetera.”

“What did he say that was none of his business? And who’s Fiona?” I ask. He glares at me.

“Fiona is my aunt and I’m not sure that’s any of your business either, Snow. Actually, I think I’m going to go to bed,” he picks up his glass of wine and downs it in one go. “Don’t stomp around too much when you get back.”

“Wait, Baz!” I call after him, but he doesn’t turn around.

BAZ

Snow doesn’t try to follow me. Thank god. I just need some time alone right now. I know eventually he’s going to come back to the room and I’m going to spend half of the night being painfully aware of his every move, but right now I could use some solitude.

My father suggested that Snow and I were together and that I’m only doing this because I fancy the ornithologist and it sort of threw me off.

I mean, technically, he’s not wrong, but he’s not right either. And I shouldn’t really care about what he thinks… but the way he said it really got to me. The disapproval in his voice was like a slap in the face. Plus, I don’t need another reminder that Snow and I are never going to happen.

I take a shower and crawl in bed. It smells like Simon which is just great. Like the universe isn’t done smacking me in the face.

I reach over and grab Simon’s pillow, fully aware that I’m being pathetic, but I don’t care. I bury my nose in his pillow, breathing in his scent.

I can’t quite pin down what Snow smells like – it’s something sweet, like those scones he always eats. (There were scones at breakfast this morning and I’m pretty sure he set some sort of a world record for the amount of scones eaten in thirty minutes.) (Or the amount of butter slathered on them.) (Revolting. Adorable.)

It calms me down a bit. I sink deeper into his pillow.

I don’t know when I fall asleep, but his smell is all around me when I wake up. And I feel a weight on my chest. I look down and see Simon’s arm stretched across my torso and I nearly have a heart attack.

And then I become aware of how one side of my body is warmer than the other and of our legs intertwined and his head resting in the crook of my shoulder. His curls are brushing against my cheek. My arm is wrapped around him, resting on his back. When did that happen?

Am I dreaming? I must be. I turn my head slightly and nope, he’s here, real as day, and his eyes are opened, staring at me. Cue second heart attack of the day.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says, sliding his hand across my stomach and using it to push himself from his side to his back. (Cue third heart attack… maybe I should stop counting.)

“And you’re considerably closer than I remember you being,” I comment, pulling my arm from underneath him. I wiggle my fingers, trying to get some blood flow back in them.

“You stole my pillow,” he says.

“That’s no excuse to spoon me, Snow.”

“I didn’t _spoon_ you. And it was an accident!” he defends himself, getting more flustered with every word. “And… and you did it back!”

“Maybe I was dreaming you were young Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“What’s wrong with old Leonardo DiCaprio?” he asks as I get out of bed. “He’s fit as well.”

I glare at him. “Do you have something to tell me, Snow?”

He shrugs. “I just think he aged well.”

“No. Lenny Kravitz aged well, Leonardo DiCaprio aged adequately. Why are we having this conversation?”

“You started it,” Snow shrugs again and crosses his arms above his head. He’s lying on my side of the bed (he definitely started _this_ ) and looking at him like this makes me want to crawl back into bed and curl up next to him. Why did I have to move so soon? I could’ve pretended to be asleep for a bit longer and enjoyed it while it lasted, because as soon as Simon realized I was awake, he started pulling back.

Wait. He was awake before me. Why didn’t he pull away then?

Maybe he didn’t want to wake me up. That’s something he would do – stay someplace a bit longer to avoid inconveniencing anyone. He’s ridiculously sweet sometimes.

“Can we… I mean, it’s not going to be awkward now, right? Because we…” his voice trails off and he looks flustered again.

“Relax, Snow, you’re not the first man I’ve shared a bed with,” I say, picking out my clothes from the wardrobe. I glance over at him. His face is as red as a tomato.

“Yeah, right, of course. You’re not either. For me, I mean.”

I raise my eyebrows at him. “Seriously, do you have something to tell me?”

“No, no, no, not like that! I just… went camping a lot. And tents are small and… you know, it gets cold,” he stammers.

“Whatever you tell yourself, Snow.”

SIMON

I am not gay.

Or, I mean, I haven’t really thought about it, but… I mean, if I was, I’d have known by now. All the gay people I know have known since way back when they were teenagers. Nobody has a sexuality crisis at twenty-five.

And I had a girlfriend. We were together for four years. Surely, that’s not a very gay thing to do, right?

And it’s not like I'm having a _crisis_. Just because I accidentally cuddled Baz in my sleep and then sort of liked it when I woke up doesn’t mean I have to question my whole identity now. I mean, it’s been over two years since the last time I woke up next to someone like that. It’s just _nice_.

Baz has barely spoken a word to me since we got out of our hotel room and it’s driving me mad. He’s so cool about it, why is he so cool about it? Why do I feel like my head is swarming with bees?

I try to focus on my work, but it’s hard with Baz sitting in the backseat. I keep glancing over to check on him and he keeps ignoring me, alternating between scrolling on his phone and reading through one of the dozen field guides that I have on my backseat.

I mean it’s not like he was particularly talkative yesterday either, but I just wish he’d say something. Ask a question, call me an idiot, anything, I’d take it. As long as he’s talking to me, I’d take it.  
Hypothetically, even if I was gay, that doesn’t mean I have to fancy Baz. And even though Baz is gay, that doesn’t necessarily mean he fancies me – his current indifference is certainly an indicator that he _doesn’t_ – so I don’t even know why I care.

I don’t even know why I’m still thinking about it. I’m usually pretty good at not thinking about things, but this is gnawing at me. I should stop thinking about it.  
It’s okay. We’ll only be here one more night and then we’re going over to Sunderland Point, where we hopefully won’t have to share a bed.

One more night – I have to make sure it doesn’t happen again – and then I can forget about it. Then I don’t have to think about it anymore.

Except it happens again. Of course it fucking does. I wake up the next morning, and Baz is in my arms, his head pressed into my shoulder, sound asleep.

At least he’s hugging me back. I think he has to hold something to sleep – he was hugging my pillow when I got into the room yesterday. It’s actually kind of… soft?

Thinking about Baz having to hug something to fall asleep makes me feel some sort of way.  
I rest my chin on top of his head. I should move, I should go back to my side of the bed, but… I don’t want to. This is nice. Baz smells nice. And he’s warm. And he’s not an annoying git when he’s asleep.

Also I think if I moved it would wake him up. We’re even closer together than we were yesterday, stomach to stomach, our legs intertwined and his arm draped across my waist.

But it would be even worse if he woke up and found us like this. I have to at least get _some_ space between us. I carefully untangle one of my legs and scoot a bit backwards – except I can’t, because the moment I do this, Baz mumbles something and wraps his arm tighter around me, his face pressing into my shoulder.

My heart starts racing, and I'm thinking I’ve woken him up, but moments later, his breathing is even again. Okay, that’s good – even though it poses an additional problem. Two additional problems, actually, the first one being that we’re now even closer together than we were before and there’s definitely no way to avoid him waking up in my arms _again_ , and the second one being the warm feeling spreading across my stomach at that thought.

Fuck.

I think I am a bit gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here! things just got exponentially gayer
> 
> also a few other things:  
> \- Idk if Lenny Kravitz aged well, generally i'm very uninterested in a) celebrities and b) men so here's that  
> \- [here's a video of bee-eaters being drama queens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4AakcqFzcu8)
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading this and thank you for your kind comments, here's [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire) if you wanna check that out


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m worried about him. I’m worried he’s going to hold what happened this morning against me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the actual chapter summary
> 
> Thank you [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading!

BAZ

Snow has been awfully quiet this whole car ride. He’s leaning against the window, and I keep looking in the rear-view mirror to check on him.

Gareth, on the other hand, has been talking his head off in the passenger seat. He saw us packing the car and grabbed his bags and told his friends he was riding with us.

The ride from Morecambe to Sunderland Point isn’t long, but he won’t stop talking. He keeps trying to engage Simon into conversation, but Simon hasn’t said a word since we left Morecambe. And he only opened his mouth then to tell me to drive slowly, which is why this hellish car ride is taking longer than it should.

I’m worried about him. I’m worried he’s going to hold what happened this morning against me.

Well, nothing happened per se but maybe he knows…

No. There’s no way he could know I was awake. I’m very good at pretending to be asleep – it’s a skill that comes with having four younger siblings. But if he does know… well, I guess I would understand his silent treatment then.

Pretending to be asleep might not have been the most moral thing to do, but I’m not exactly known for being morally upstanding. I just wanted a few moments of it – of him holding me, his chin resting on top of my head, his fingers rubbing tiny circles on my shoulders. I don’t think he even realized he was doing that, since he was being really careful with his other movements, presumably not to wake me up.

It makes my heart melt. Simon, who usually stomps around and hits just about every corner he could hit and generally doesn’t give a flying fuck about waking up the dead, was being careful not to wake _me_ up.

Then when his alarm went off, he rolled away so quickly, I’m not sure he didn’t teleport. I pretended to have just woken up and did my best to ignore the guilt and anxiety that was practically rolling off him.

And now he won’t speak.

“Hey, Simon, you said you can imitate an owl, right? Could you teach me? I think it would be useful for my diploma,” Gareth starts in another desperate attempt to engage Simon in a conversation. I think Snow's silence is driving him insane too, only he’s being considerably more vocal about it. I want to laugh at his attempts – if he wanted to pull Simon into a conversation, he should just say something factually incorrect about birds. That’s what I’d do – except I’m pretending to not be bothered by his silence.

“Later, Gareth,” Simon mumbles from the backseat.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. We should almost be there now, right, Mr uh…”

“Just call me Baz,” I sigh.

The village we’re staying in is really tiny, even smaller than the village Simon lives in. I’m not sure if it even qualifies as a village. It’s more like a group of houses with a pub and an inn, which is where we’re staying.

Simon gets out of the car and crouches down immediately, leaning against the car tyre. Now I’m really worried about him.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“Mhm,” he nods. “Just feeling a bit carsick. Happens if I ride in the back. I’ll be fine.”

“Why didn’t you ride in the front then?” I ask. He shrugs.

“Gareth was there already. And it wasn’t such a long ride so I thought I’d be fine but uh, you know… we just had breakfast before we left.”

“Next time just tell Gareth to fuck off,” I sigh. I want to add that he didn’t have to eat half of the buffet either, but that’s an impossible thing to ask of Snow.

“Yeah, noted. Hey, can you go check us in?” he asks, digging his wallet out of his pocket and handing it to me.

“Seriously, are you going to be alright?” I ask again.

“Yeah, I just need some fresh air. Go.”

I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed that our room here has two single beds. I guess a little bit of both. I don’t think I could handle three more nights of sharing a bed with Simon, but at the same time, I was hoping we could get a bit more of what we had the last few nights.

I only have a little over a week left with him before the meeting at my father’s office decides the moor’s fate. Regardless of the result, there probably won’t be a good reason for me to return to the moor afterwards.

Words can’t describe how much I don’t want to return to London. Not just because of Simon, but because of my internship. I don’t want things to go back to the way they were. I don’t feel like the person I was three weeks ago, and the thought of going back to that office makes me shiver.

I know I’m going to have to go. And I know that despite how well constructed the appeal is, the chances of my father caving are very slim.

I can’t think of a single scenario where both Simon and I come out of this situation getting what we want. But that’s okay.

As long as Simon gets what he wants, I’m happy. I’ll take it.

SIMON

The curlews here are abundant. I’ve spent the whole day writing down numbers on their rings and I’m now cross-checking them with the data from my dissertation to see if we saw any curlews from the Mummer’s moor today. The answer is yes, quite a few, and that makes me happy. I can’t help but to worry about them when they migrate – some never return. I know that that’s life and nature is cruel, but once you spend the whole summer observing their behaviours and patterns, you get a bit attached.

Baz enters the room, looking exhausted. He tosses his phone on the desk, then throws himself on his bed.

“Lord help me, Snow, why are men such idiots?” he sighs.

“Boyfriend problems?” I ask, even though I don’t know if Baz even has a boyfriend. I guess if he did, I’d have known by now, but then again, he also kept being gay from me for weeks, so who knows. He furrows his eyebrows at me.

“Sort of,” he says. Oh. I try to ignore the pang in my chest. “But not mine.”

“Not yours?” I repeat. So he doesn’t have a boyfriend?

“No. My friends are idiots. See, they’ve had a thing for each other for _years_ but they just won’t talk to each other. I’ve tried everything! I’ve cancelled our plans last minute so it’d just be the two of them, I… well that’s actually the only thing I did, but that should be enough!” Baz rambles. I bite my lip not to laugh. He catches my expression and scowls at me. “It’s not funny, Snow! Niall’s been texting me all day about Dev and I just got off the phone with Dev, who spent half of the time theorizing about how Niall might be seeing someone. It’s infuriating,” he says, but he’s half laughing now too.

“Did you try telling them to talk to each other?” I suggest. Baz rolls his eyes.

“Why no, the possibility never occurred to me!” he says sarcastically.

“Alright, no need to be a prat,” I roll my eyes. “Why won’t they talk to each other?”

“Because they’re idiots and keep seeing other people. Now they’re finally both single again and I keep telling Niall to talk to Dev, but he keeps saying he wants to give him more space, since Dev just broke up with his girlfriend a few weeks ago.”

“Right, so just… lock them in a room together.” I shrug. Baz glares at me.

“Don’t you think I’ve tried?”

“Wait did you really? You really locked your friends in a room together?”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Baz shrugs.

“You can’t just lock people in a room!” I object. “What if they’re claustrophobic?”

“Relax, Snow, I’ve known them since I was little. Both of them do just fine in enclosed spaces. My aunt Fiona on the other hand…”

“Baz!”

“What?”

“You didn’t seriously lock your aunt in a room?”

“What? No! Who do you think I am, Snow?” Baz asks, pretending to be insulted while also trying not to smile. “I got stuck in a lift with her. Life changing experience, I tell you.”

BAZ

“Hold this,” Snow passes me a notebook offhandedly.

“Didn’t realize I was your shelf,” I comment, tucking the notebook underneath my arm. He glares at me.

“Shut up,” he says. Rhys seems to find it amusing, though, because he smiles at me. The three of us are out in the field, observing a flock of birds that I can’t name. I always thought the three undergrads stuck together (they have so far, with the exception of Gareth breaking off to bombard Snow with questions from time to time), but neither Gareth nor Philippa are with us on field today. I think that’s for the better – if they were here, there would be too many people who fancy each other in one place, what with Gareth’s weird academic crush on Simon and Philippa’s crush on Gareth (Simon told me about that) and my hopeless crush on Simon (which I’m hoping nobody knows about). It would be a mess.

Rhys seems like the most stoic one out of the three of them. I appreciate that.

I flip through Snow’s notebook. The inside looks just like any other notebook of his – unreadable.

“You still write like an animal,” I say, trying to decipher the messily scrawled letters and numbers. Rhys steps up to me and looks at the notebook.

“That’s the scientific name, look. _C. hiaticula_ , that’s the ringed plover,” he says, pointing at one scribble. (In what universe is that a C? I thought it was an A.) “Now I’m guessing this is the location and this is the number of speciements sighted, right, Simon?”

“My handwriting’s not that bad.” Snow defends himself. “But yeah, that’s it.”

“It is that bad. Rhys, have you ever had the pleasure of seeing Snow’s shopping list? It’s a nightmare.”

Rhys laughs. “No, I have not. Is it that bad?”

“Shut up, Baz, I do most of the grocery runs anyway,” Snow says, stepping even further away from us, disappearing behind some trees.

“So, um, how long have you guys been together?” Rhys asks quietly once Snow is out of earshot. I nearly drop Snow’s notebook.

“What? We’re not… it’s not like that. Really,” I stammer, trying not to show how much his question has caught me off guard.

“Oh, sorry… I just thought…” Rhys trails off, looking embarrassed.

“No. No, I’m just helping him with the whole moor business, that’s it.”

“What’s it?” Snow asks, making his way back to where we’re standing.

“I was explaining to Rhys how I came into the position of getting your groceries in the first place.”

Snow furrows his eyebrows at us. “ _I_ get the groceries. Also, Rhys, if you step up behind these trees you can see eiders in the distance.”

“Oh, great,” Rhys grabs his binoculars and heads for the trees. He shoots me another apologetic look before disappearing in between the bushes.

SIMON

“Snow, can you stop stuffing your mouth for five seconds?” Baz sneers, his eyes still glued to his laptop.

“I’m hungry,” I shrug. We spent the whole day doing fieldwork and I only packed two sandwiches, so I was starving by the time we got back. Baz barely ate anything, just took his laptop down to the pub and went straight to working on the appeal. There wasn’t much for me to do, so I started eating the rolls that were in the bread basket.

“Order something else then,” Baz suggests. Hm. That’s a good idea. I pick up the menu and start flipping through it, but before I can get anywhere, I feel a hand on my back.

“Simon. A word?” A familiar voice sounds behind me. I look up and see Davy, standing above me, looking serious. I quickly turn around in my seat. I’ve been trying to talk to Davy this whole trip, but he’s always busy. Baz looks up as well, raising his eyebrow.

“Um, yes of course,” I say, pulling out a chair next to me so he can sit down. He just looks at it.

“Outside?” he asks.

“You’ll stay here, right?” I check with Baz, grabbing my coat.

“I’ve got nowhere else to go,” Baz mutters in a tone that I think is sarcasm. If my mentor wasn’t around, I’d probably try to think of something witty to say back, but instead I just follow Davy out of the pub.

“So, what are you doing, Simon?” Davy asks, sitting down on one of the benches outside of the pub. I sit next to him.

“Oh, well, I’ve been working on my dissertation mostly, and documenting bird migrations on the moor. Actually, about my dissertation, I was thinking-”

“No, I meant right now,” Davy cuts me off. “Have I interrupted something important?”

“Oh no, Baz was writing the appeal, I was just keeping him company. Actually, I think you should talk to him sometime, I’m sure your input would be very valuable for the negotiations,” I say.

“Hm… I don’t trust young Mr Grimm. I don’t think you should either. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh,” my face falls. And here I hoped we could talk about my PhD. “No, Baz is the good sort, really. I didn’t trust him at the beginning either, but he’s nothing like Malcolm Grimm. He doesn’t even go by his last name.”

“He’s still a Grimm, Simon. They have cunning ways of making them trust you. You’re too young to know this, but I made a similar mistake ten years ago. Much like you are now, I was negotiating with Mr Grimm Senior about not chopping down the Wavering Wood in Yorkshire. I made the mistake of trusting him and just when I thought we'd made an agreement, he signed to have half of the Wood bulldozed. It was a great loss for our Institute. I don’t want you making the same mistakes I did,” Davy says.

“No, but Baz really isn’t like his dad!” I object. “He’s been writing this appeal practically since the day he got here. He’s got over fifty pages on it. I seriously doubt he would go through all that trouble if he wasn’t intending on helping us.”

“He would, Simon,” Davy says, sounding sad. “These people, they will go to any lengths to make you believe they’re on your side. Don’t let them fool you, Simon – Mummer’s moor is far too important for you to make any sort of mistakes.”

“Sir, I seriously don’t think-” I start, feeling anxiety build up in my chest. I understand where he’s coming from with Malcolm, but Baz really isn’t like him. His morals are in a completely different place. Baz is with _us_. He wants to help us. He’s _good_.

“Listen, I know this is a lot for you to take in. Just remember whose side he’ll be sitting on once you present his appeal to Mr Grimm and his employees. He could easily be setting you up with loopholes and traps that would eventually make us lose the negotiations. The moor is too important-”

“If the moor is so important, why don’t you sort out the negotiations? You’ve got a lot more experience in the field, you’d be way better at it!” I explode suddenly, then immediately start feeling bad for my outburst. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” I quickly begin to apologize, feeling hot tears prickle at my eyes. I try to hold them back.

“It’s fine, Simon. I understand you’re under a lot of stress, but this is your responsibility. I am far too busy to be dealing with Malcolm Grimm at the moment and your education is sufficient enough to handle him on your own. Just don’t trust the Grimms and you’ll be good, okay?”

I don’t say anything, partially because I’m still trying not to cry, partially because I can’t promise him that I won’t trust Baz. I’m not used to disagreeing with Davy, but I think I disagree with him.

I just want this conversation to be over.

“I’ll leave you alone to think this through,” Davy says, standing up. “I trust you, Simon. Don’t let us down.”

I wait until he disappears back inside the pub and then I let my tears fall.

“What did he want?” Baz asks once I get back inside. “You two took forever. I ordered you a plate of chips but they’ve probably gone cold by now…”

“Why are you helping us, Baz?” I cut him off. His head jerks at the tone of my voice, like I’ve just slapped him.

“Excuse me?” he asks, his eyes narrowed into slits.

“This. Why are you helping us with this? Why leave a perfectly good job in London to live in the middle of nowhere, working on something that probably isn’t even your area of expertise?”

Baz looks at me like he usually does before he starts snapping or sneering at me or ignoring me altogether. I can’t take it – if he does that now, I think that would just be a confirmation of everything Davy said. _Please, just answer me normally, please_ , I think.

I don’t think I can handle not trusting Baz. I don’t think I can handle going against his father without him.

“I told you why I’m doing this,” Baz says, his voice softer than I expected. He must’ve seen that I’m currently losing it and decided not to be a prick for once in his life. (Baz isn’t a prick, not really – he just acts like one.) (Ebb says it’s because he’s shy. I think it’s because he’s posh.)

“I’m doing this because I don’t think my father’s right. There are better, less harmful ways to get what he wants, and he’s only doing this because you’re an easy target. It’s like taking candy from a baby.”

My head jerks. He didn’t have to put it like that.

“We’re not an easy target,” I start, feeling anger boil in my stomach again. Baz sighs and furrows his eyebrows.

“No offence, Snow, but no one here knows a thing about economics. My father knows that. That’s how he wins negotiations against you,” he says.

“Nobody at your company knows anything about ecology either,” I mutter.

“They don’t,” Baz agrees. “But they’re under the impression that you don’t need to know about nature when you talk about money. Listen, I have respect for what you do, I really do. That’s also why I’m doing this. Do you think anyone at my office has genuine passion for their job?”

“Your father?” I offer. Baz laughs dryly.

“Okay, I’ll give you that. But trust me, I know how much this means to you—to all of you—and I… I wouldn’t want you to lose this.”

I just stare at him and he stares right back.

I’ve been trying not to think about Baz like that, I really have. I’ve been trying not to think about the possibility of not being straight at all. But it’s hard, especially now that he’s staring at me like that.

Usually when Baz stares me down, his gaze is stern and ice cold, but now his eyes look… concerned.

If we were alone right now, I think I’d hug him. I think I’d-

“Simon,” Baz finally speaks. “Are you okay?”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, then rub my eyes.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all,” I say. Baz is still looking at me with concern in his eyes and I hate it. “Listen, um… Bonfire Night’s tomorrow. If you want to go.”

I might be making the biggest mistake of my life. Davy might be right after all, and if he is, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself. But my gut feeling is stronger than Davy’s words.

I trust Baz. I don’t think he’d betray us. I’m certain of it, somewhere deep in my heart, in a way that I can’t explain. Baz wouldn’t betray us.

And there’s something else – something I’m trying not to think about, but I know it’s inevitably going to sneak its way back to my head tonight before I fall asleep.

But I’m not going to think about that now.

Baz leans back in his chair, his face looking a bit more relaxed.

“Bonfire Night sounds good.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dudes guess what! I have writer's block on the most important chapter of the fic! Big sad :( It's okay, I'll work through it!  
> Do I have anything else to tell you? No, I don't think so. My cat says hi. Here's [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire)
> 
> Oh and eiders are the fastest ducks on the planet. They also look [quite flamboyant](https://www.google.com/search?q=eider&sxsrf=ALeKk03S7jNVjGVMHO9jTjNEsM1w7B6AYw:1600110415123&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj27ZPnq-nrAhWYgVwKHQiTAEYQ_AUoAXoECBAQAw&biw=1366&bih=657)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember, remember, the fifth of November, when Baz Pitch said I was right about his dad being capitalist scum supreme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> first off, I am so sorry this chapter is coming so late! Writer's block and just the general business of life will do that to a fic. Anyway, I hope you still remember the plot and that the contents of this chapter make up for my lateness! 
> 
> As always thank you to the amazing [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for all your help and beta reading!  
> Also I made the paragraphs double spaced in this one so tell me if it's easier to read that way?

BAZ

It’s been years since I’ve last been to Bonfire Night. I remember Bonfire Nights from when I was little and I remember the Bonfire Night when I was sixteen, carrying Mordelia on my shoulders so that she could see the fire. That was only weeks before my father kicked me out.

I was never arsed to go to any Bonfire Night celebrations in London. Sometimes Fiona and I would watch the fireworks from our flat but that was it.

Snow told me there would be no fireworks tonight, because they’re bad for the wildlife. Apparently that’s an arrangement WICN has made with the residents of this village.

Speaking of Snow, I don’t know where he disappeared to, but I don’t mind. It’s nice and warm by the bonfire and Miss Possibelf came by earlier and gave me toffee, so I’m all set. Plus, I’ve had a few glasses of wine so everything is fuzzy.

Actually, maybe it’s better Snow isn’t around. I’m awful at holding my drink – I think it runs in the family. My aunt gets shitfaced after just three pints and I always laugh at her for it, but I’m not much better myself. And I tend to say stupid things when I’m drunk, which I would not like him to hear. 

Almost everyone here is drinking. The WICN people are treating it as a goodbye party since we’re going home tomorrow. Earlier, some bloke I didn’t know came by and spent ten minutes telling me how I should never feed ducks bread. He was definitely more shitfaced than me.

“Baz!” I turn around. It’s Gareth. “Have you seen Simon?”

“No. He’s probably over there somewhere,” I say, gesturing at the crowd of ornithologists gathered around the drinks stand. I have no idea if Simon is actually there.

“Thanks!” Gareth nods and heads for the crowd. I watch him disappear.

“I owe you one,” a voice sounds next to me. I jump. Simon is standing behind me, holding two drinks, wearing his beloved cursed fleece and knitted hat combination. 

“Where have you been?” I snap at him. How did he even manage to sneak up to me? “Were you hiding from Gareth?” I ask.

“Sort of,” Snow shrugs, handing me one of the drinks he’s holding. I take a sip. It’s _very_ alcoholic – definitely not wine.

“Sort of? What am I drinking?”

“I’m also hiding from Davy. And it’s some sort of a cocktail? I don’t know, Rhys mixed it up.”

“Right, cool, I’m drinking something a university student mixed, I am totally not going to get shitfaced,” I mutter, taking another sip. “Why are you hiding from Davy? Isn’t he your mentor?”

Snow shrugs again.

“Wait, is this about yesterday?” I ask. Simon was acting weird after his conversation with Davy yesterday – he barely even touched the chips, and when Simon doesn’t have an appetite it means something is very wrong.

“Sort of,” he mumbles, staring at his drink.

“What happened?”

“Oh, is that toffee?” Simon’s eyes light up and he reaches to grab some of it out of the plastic cup that Miss Possibelf brought it in. I hold the cup out of his reach.

“No toffee until you tell me what happened.” I say.

“Fuck you,” Simon turns away from me.

“You really don’t want to talk about it?” I ask, stepping a bit closer to him.

“No.”

I sigh and pass him the plastic cup. “Here, have it.” His face lights up and he grabs the toffee.

“Thank you!”

Simon eats the toffee in silence, looking as pleased with himself as I’ve ever seen him. He stares at the empty cup longingly when he’s done and it makes me laugh. 

“What is it, Snow?” 

“I’m drunk and I want more toffee,” he sighs. 

“Here,” I say, fishing some loose change out of my pocket. “Go get some more. My treat.” 

Simon looks at me funny. “You’re way nicer when you’re drunk,” he says, then goes off in the direction of the toffee stand. 

“I’m not drunk!” I yell behind him even though that’s not strictly true. I am definitely at least some level of drunk. I have to hand it to him, whatever Rhys mixed up is _strong_. 

“Abort, abort, abort,” Simon comes running back. “Gareth is there. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“Snow why are you-” I start, but he grabs me by the elbow and pulls me towards some trees. “You can’t avoid him forever,” I try again as he leads me through the patch of trees. This can’t be a good idea – we’re both drunk and it’s dark and I’m positive he doesn’t know where we’re going.

“Oh yeah? Try me,” Simon says. The trees open up to a small meadow, so maybe we won’t get lost and die of exposure. (It’s actually freezing – I’ve been standing by the bonfire all night, so I hadn't realized just how cold it is - I can already feel my ears going numb.)

“Let’s sit there,” Snow suggests, pulling me to a log on the edge of the meadow. He checks to see if it’s dry, then sits down.

I shove my hands in my pockets, hoping that will prevent them from going numb with cold and sit down next to him.

“Why are you even avoiding Gareth so much?” I ask.

“Because he wants to talk to me.”

“Because he has a crush on you,” I correct him. Simon shoots me an annoyed look. 

“Gareth is straight,” he says, even though I know that. I may not have a gaydar, but I know a straight man when I see one. However, it is interesting that Simon didn’t say he was straight… 

“Gareth is the epitome of heterosexuality,” I agree and it makes Simon laugh. Not just laugh, giggle. It might be the best thing I’ve heard in my life. “You, however, I have my doubts about,” I add. 

“Don’t we all, Baz?” Simon laughs. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Is there a chance Simon is queer or is he just fucking with me? 

“Why do I even bother?” I sigh. 

“Because you’re incredibly nosy,” Snow retorts.

“Excuse me! That’s not true!” I say, shoving him. He starts laughing and I jab him with my elbow.

“Ow! Alright, okay, I’m sorry. You’re not nosy. But you are aggressive,” he says, still laughing.

“You had that coming,” I mutter.

“Look,” he nudges me then and points up at the sky. It’s freckled with stars, way more than you ever see in London.

“Wow,” I breathe.

“Yeah,” Simon says and I can’t see him but I can tell that he’s smiling. “I can never tell them apart, though.”

I scoot closer to him so that we’re pressed shoulder to shoulder. “Look,” I say, lifting my hand up and pointing at the red spot low on the horizon. “That’s Mars. That over here is Ursa Minor and that’s Ursa Major. Just above Mars, you have Pegasus. And over here is Orion. You can always recognize Orion because those three stars form a line.”

“How do you know all that?” he sighs, leaning against me. I feel a rush of warmth run through my body as his hat tickles my cheek and I can’t help but to lean back into him.

“We had astronomy as an elective course at our school,” I say. 

He scoffs. “Posh.”

“Shut up.” I nudge him.

“You shut up,” he says, but then continues watching the stars in silence, still slumped against me. I feel like the air around us is buzzing with static and I so badly want to reach out and take his hand, but he’d probably kill me if I tried. Or maybe…

No. It would ruin the moment. He’d pull away. I don’t _ever_ want him to pull away.

“Thank you for letting me stay here,” I blurt out. Snow lifts his head up to look at me, a puzzled expression on his face. Fuck, I should not have said that. _This_ is why I don’t like being drunk. It’s embarrassing.

“You mean… on this log?” he asks and I have to laugh. I may be a sentimental drunk but he’s a stupid drunk.

“Yes, Snow, on the log,” I repeat sarcastically. Well, at least we got emotional vulnerability out of the way. Except my stupid, drunken brain decides to keep talking. “No, I mean at your house. Or at the moor. Or on this weird fucking ornithologist convention. Or anywhere that,” I pause, suddenly aware that I was just about to say _anywhere that’s with you_. “Anywhere that’s not London,” I correct myself. I do still have that little bit of self-restraint and dignity left.

“Yeah, no problem,” he says softly and I think I might melt. “Out of curiosity, though, what’s so bad about London?”

I scoff. “My father. The company. Everything.”

There’s a chance I’m being slightly over-dramatic here (I do actually like London as a city), but I don’t care. I’m drunk and I’m freezing and Simon Snow is pressed against me from shoulder to knee, so I really don’t have the mental capacity to be moderating my speech right now.

“You want to know what I think about your father?”

“Hm?”

“I think that he’s a capitalist twat,” he says, and I can’t help it. I start laughing so hard my entire body is shaking. He looks at me, puzzled, like he didn’t expect to make me laugh, and that makes me laugh even harder.

“You’re a piece of work, aren’t you, Simon Snow? You always say what’s on your mind.”

“I don’t see how that’s a bad thing…”

“It’s not.” I’m shaking my head. I could kiss him right now. “It’s not. And you’re right.”

“Well, that’s a first.”

“What?”

“You admitting I’m right.”

“We will never speak of this.” I say, trying not to smile. 

“I’ll remind you every morning. I’ll get it tattooed on my forehead. _Remember, remember, the fifth of November, when Baz Pitch said I was right about his dad being capitalist scum supreme_ ,” he sings.

“Your forehead’s not big enough for that many words.” I shake my head.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” he says, furrowing his eyebrows at me.

“I don’t know,” I laugh. “You are right though. About him, I mean.”

“He said it again!” Snow gloats.

“God, I hope I never become like him,” I sigh. 

“Why would you ever become like him?” Simon asks, his tone suddenly serious again.

“I mean, I’m set to take over his company one day. Even though I don’t really want to, but you know, family is family, so it’s not like I really have a choice. But I just don’t want to _be_ like him, you know?” 

“Baz, that's so sad,” he says after a few moments of silence. “What is it that you want to do then?” he asks. 

“I don’t know. My mother was a professor and I always thought I’d follow her footsteps. I graduated in philosophy and economics at LSE and I wanted to go into philosophy, but then my father came back into my life and asked me to be a part of the company so I ultimately decided to do my master’s in microeconomics. I could hardly do anything at his company if I went with philosophy so…” 

“Listen, I know I’ll never understand since I have no parents, but why are you so keen on going with your father’s wishes?” he asks. I don’t know how to answer him. Yes, my mother wouldn’t like us fighting, but I know she’d also like me to put my wishes first. 

“I think at the time, I was just happy to have him back, you know. I already lost one parent and yes, I had Fiona, but it wasn’t the same. So when he came back into my life, I would happily agree with anything he suggested. And now I’m in too deep to back out.” 

“Baz…” 

“It’s fine,” I mutter, already regretting telling him all of that. It’s not his duty to deal with my existential crisis. Fuck, I wish I could just disappear right now. If the ground could open up and swallow me whole that would be great.

“No it’s not. That’s really not fine and I’m going to hug you now,” he announces.

“Snow, don’t-” I protest, but he already has his arms around my neck and he’s warm and sturdy he smells like the bonfire smoke and toffee and I lean into him, despite my better judgement. And when he starts running his hand up and down my back, I close my eyes. I can’t remember the last time anyone’s hugged me, not like this anyway.

“You have a choice, you know that?” he says quietly and his voice is so infernally close to my ear, it sends shivers down my spine. “Even if he’s your family, you’re allowed to say no. You’re your own person and you should put yourself first. You deserve that much, yeah?” 

“When the fuck did you get so insightful?” I mutter into his shoulder. It makes him laugh and I can feel his body shaking underneath me.

Fuck, I want to kiss him.

He’s pulling away from me now, letting go and I really want to kiss him. I want to grab him by the shoulders and not let him get any further than a few inches from me.

I don’t. Because we’re drunk and I don’t even know if he’s gay and I don’t want to push him. Not unless he pushes me first.

“Just remember, you have a choice, yeah? And I don’t think you’ll turn out like your father. I mean, you’re here, right? Against all odds,” he says, pressing our foreheads together and it takes every bit of my strength not to smash my face into his.

He’s so beautiful and clever and he’s sitting here, his hand gripping the back of my neck, telling me I have a _choice_ and he’s saying it like he believes it fully in his heart and I think I might love him.

I’m a drunk, sentimental bastard, but I think I might love him.

And I think I might kiss him.

He’s right here and he’s looking at me like he’s expecting an answer, and there’s a glint of determination in his eyes, like he’ll fight me until I agree with him, and he’s so close I can feel the warmth of his breath, and _I should just kiss him_.

I think I might.

“Hey, Simon! Are you here?” A voice yells from in between the trees. Simon lets out an annoyed sigh. Was he holding his breath?

“Fucking Gareth,” he mutters. Softly.

“Go,” I say, pulling away. His hand falls by his side and I think about catching it. And then I do catch it. His hands are warm and he’s looking at me a bit bewildered, but his fingers intertwine with mine.

I’m suddenly having trouble breathing.

“It’s Gareth. A word for him means a ten page monologue. It’s going to take forever,” he complains.

“Do you really have any other choice? Get it out of the way now and then you can enjoy the rest of the night without having to constantly run from him,” I say. He scowls.

“Or I could go into hiding again,” he suggests. It makes me laugh.

“Please don’t try to find a hiding spot here; you’ll get mauled by a grizzly bear.”

“Bears don’t live in the UK,” he says instinctively.

“You know what I mean. Just go talk to him, before he comes here.”

Simon sighs again. “It’s going to take forever. You should probably go get another drink and find yourself some entertainment. Ask Rhys to show you a picture of his budgie or something.” He shrugs. I make a face.

“Bird people are fucking weird,” I mutter.

“Wait until you meet spider people.” Snow shrugs again. “Or you could go back to the inn,” he says after a few moments of silence. “You’re shivering.”

“Yeah, I might do that,” I say. I truly am freezing and I have to take a leak really badly. Simon nods, his hand letting go of mine.

“Alright,” he says, looking like he’s thinking hard about something. “Here.” He takes off his knitted hat and pulls it over my hair. I just stare at him.

“For the cold,” he explains. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss on my cheek.

SIMON

I have no idea why I did that.

I hurry towards Gareth, trying not to think about how I probably just creeped the fuck out of Baz.

Or maybe I didn’t. I mean, Baz was acting weird. Weirder than usual. And he held my hand.

_ Because he’s drunk _ , I think. He is – we both are, probably more than we should be – but it wasn’t just that. He didn’t pull away. He let me hug him and then he let me linger for a bit longer and he _held my hand_.

I’ve been trying not to think about kissing Baz, about wanting to kiss Baz ever since we left Morecambe, but I know I can’t ignore it forever. 

It’s impossible to ignore it when I think about how the corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughs or how he always raises his eyebrows when he looks at me or how his hair falls on his face when he’s working.

I want to kiss Baz. 

I wanted to kiss Baz just now. Or I was hoping he’d kiss me. I don’t know if Baz wants to kiss me… but I think he was thinking about it too.

And then of course, Gareth had to show up.

He’s rambling now and I’ve missed half of it because I’m too drunk to be paying attention properly or maybe because I’m still thinking about Baz.

I think I’ve wanted to kiss him for a while now. Even before Morecambe.

I should tell him how I feel. He’s probably going to want an explanation for the kiss. Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to wait for Gareth to stop talking and then go straight back to the inn and explain myself. And then… I don’t know what’s going to happen then.

We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Gareth is still talking. I think he’s trying to pitch me a new idea for owl observation methods.

“Um, Gareth, that’s great, but I sort of have to go. You should talk to Andrew about this,” I stammer, trying to back away from him.

“Andrew’s on paternity leave,” Gareth reminds me. Fuck, right. Andrew and his baby are the reason I’m here in the first place. I’m here and I’m drunk and I nearly just kissed Baz. I should go talk to him…

“Oh, right, well, er, write him an email,” I say. “I have to go, sorry.” I start pushing my way through the crowd around the bonfire. The sooner I get back to the inn, the better.

“Simon!” a different voice calls out to me. Barry. Fuck me, these people ignore me most of the time, but now that I actually have to go somewhere, I’m the most popular man at the Institute. “Where is your friend?” he asks.

“Um, he went back to the inn. He’s not feeling well. Actually, I was just going to check on him-”

“Ah, I’m sure he can handle himself.” Barry waves his hand at me. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the moor. You have red grouse, right?”

“Um, yeah, we have a few.” Usually I’d be thrilled to talk about red grouse with Barry, but I really have to _go_. Unfortunately, Barry launches in a photography project idea he has to bring awareness to the red grouse conservation.

It’s a nightmare. And _then_ , other people join in, and I find myself part of this big group discussion about the birds from the Phasianidae family. Then, some woman I barely know pulls me aside to discuss my curlew research. Which, again, I’d be thrilled to talk about if I didn’t have places to be!

By the time I’m finally free, an hour has passed since Baz left. I walk back to the inn as fast as I can. The one advantage of the string of distractions is that it at least gave me time to sober up a bit.

I don’t know what I’m going to say to Baz. _Hey, I’m sorry I almost kissed you, but I’d do it again_? That doesn’t seem very well thought through… But then again, I was never good with words.

I’ll just try to tell him how I feel, point blank.

My hands shake as I fumble with the keys, but when I finally unlock the door, the room is dark. A few moments later, my eyes adjust to the darkness and I can see Baz fast asleep in his bed, under two layers of blankets.

In a way, it’s almost a relief. It might be better to talk to him tomorrow, when we’re both sober. I quietly make my way to the bathroom and get ready for bed. That’s okay. I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I tiptoe my way to my bed when I hear Baz’s voice.

“Simon?” he mumbles, still sounding a bit drunk.

“Here,” I stop just in front of my bed. (Here? Why did I say here? This is not a fucking roll call.) 

He lifts his covers up and I may still be a little bit drunk and just generally bad at taking hints, but even I get that. I slip into his bed and he wraps his arms around me, dropping his duvet over both of us. He’s so warm and I curl up closer to him.

I never thought I’d get to do this again. I thought that last morning in Morecambe was it, the last time I’d get to be this close to him, but here he is, his hands around my waist, his face just inches from mine.

We’re going home tomorrow. What’s going to happen then?

If I kiss him now, do we get to do this when we get home as well? Or is this only allowed because we’re both drunk and away from home?

If it’s only allowed tonight, why shouldn’t I kiss him? Why shouldn’t I do everything I’ve been trying not to think about?

I push my fingers in his hair and I feel him exhale, his body relaxing against mine. So Baz likes it when someone plays with his hair. Noted.

I slowly move my hand to the nape of his neck. Our foreheads are pressed together again. Should I kiss him now? My thumb moves to stroke his cheek and Baz’s arm tightens around my waist.

“Simon,” he starts.

“Hm?”

“Don’t get me wrong, but I’m still drunk,” he whispers. “And I don’t want to start this when I’m drunk.”

My insides melt at his words. He wants to start this. Just not tonight. But he wants to start this. I move slightly to press a kiss on his forehead.

“It can wait,” I whisper.

Moments later he’s asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tldr: g a y
> 
> anyway this slowburn isn't burned yet, just lightly toasted  
> I hope y'all have a wonderful week and I'll try to get chapter 12 up sooner, but I do start university in a few days so again, forgive me if I'm late
> 
> here's [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire) where I sometimes post wip wednesdays/six sentence sundays of this fic and other wips. I also just saw that I have a shield bug on my window so everyone say hi to Ivan (what am I even talking about)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My heart still jumps when I think about it. He nearly kissed me. Twice.  
> I mean, that’s got to mean something, right? Or is he just one of those blokes that are straight until they have a few pints, and suddenly heterosexuality flies out the window?  
> Well, I suppose Dev used to be like that, and look at him now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, Chapter 12 was affectionately known as the idiot chapter, but then I merged 12 and 13 together so now only half of it is the idiot chapter  
> Enjoy!
> 
> As always, thank you [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading and all your help!

BAZ

I am awoken by a pounding headache.

Scratch that, I am awoken by Snow’s ineffably loud alarm clock giving me a pounding headache.

“Turn that thing off,” I groan. Moments later, the blaring stops, but the headache’s still here. Snow curls himself into me.

Wait. Snow is in my bed. How did he get here?

Oh fuck, right. I invited him. I invited him and I… I told him I didn’t want to start something with him when I’m drunk. Start what? Making out? It’s not like we can start anything more than that. I’ll be gone next week. Unless… How could I have been so careless? He’s not even gay!

I don’t even remember what he said to that… Does he remember? I need to know.

“Snow,” I say, pulling my head back to look at him. “How did you get here?”

“Huh?” Simon mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.

“You’re in my bed, how did you get here?”

“Oh, um…” Simon is quiet for a few moments, thinking. “Do you remember anything from last night?” he asks then.

“I remember there were stars,” I say. And I remember him holding my hand and kissing me on the cheek and nearly kissing me _twice_ , but I don’t say those things out loud. I’m hoping he will get the hint.

Snow just stares at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “Huh,” he finally says.

Oh my god.

That poor bastard doesn’t remember a thing.

SIMON

So Baz doesn’t remember anything. Or rather, he only remembers the stars. Well I’m glad that was the most memorable part of last night for him.

I roll out of bed and head for the bathroom. Maybe it’s not too late. I mean, it’s first thing in the morning – his memory might still come back as the day goes on. It’s happened to me loads of times.

I’ve had better mornings, to be honest. My head is killing me and my mouth feels like sand. I drink some water and change into fresh clothes, which makes me feel five percent more human.

We still have a long way to go.

Baz is still in bed when I get out of the bathroom. I drop an aspirin and a glass of water on his bedside table and head for the door. I’m starving.

“I’ll be down at breakfast,” I say. No answer.

Baz said he wanted this. Last night, when we were lying in his bed, he said he wanted this, just not when he was drunk. He’s sober now and he doesn’t remember anything.

How do I go about that? If what he said is true and he does want this, then how do I go about it? Our friendship isn’t exactly affectionate – sober Baz is about as physically approachable as a fort. Surrounded by a moat. With lava. And spikes. 

He’d never let me get that close again.

And what if it’s not true? What if he just said those things because he was drunk and he doesn’t actually want this?

I sigh.

“Rough night?” The pub owner asks, placing a plate of eggs in front of me.

“I suppose,” I mumble.

I’ll wait to see if Baz remembers anything. See if he gives any signs.

And if he doesn’t, I’ll worry about that when we get home.

BAZ

I can’t believe this imbecile doesn’t remember _anything_. It’s actually for the better that we didn’t kiss last night, since he wouldn’t even know it happened.

My heart still jumps when I think about it. He nearly kissed me. Twice.

I mean, that’s got to mean something, right? Or is he just one of those blokes that are straight until they have a few pints, and suddenly heterosexuality flies out the window?

Well, I suppose Dev used to be like that, and look at him now. 

I wish I could remember what he said when I told him I didn’t want to be drunk for our first kiss. I’ve been racking my brain trying to recall it, but so far, I haven’t been successful. It’s actually distracting me from my work.

Simon and the rest of the WICN people went out to do fieldwork one last time before we left, but I stayed behind at the inn, because I’m nearly finished with editing the final version of the appeal, and I’d like to be done with it before we get back. Simon’s going to have to present it at the meeting next week and I have a feeling that getting him ready for a presentation is going to take a lot more effort than writing the appeal in the first place. I can’t imagine he’s very good at public speaking, and my father and his team are going to be looking for every flaw.

What did he _say_? I close my eyes and try to take myself back to last night. 

His hand was in my hair and it felt so nice. And his face was so close I could feel his breath. I could feel his forehead pressed against mine. I can feel it again now, just thinking about it.

I knew he was going to kiss me any second… and I said… I told him I wanted to wait.

I groan, my hands pulling at my hair. I hate this. I’m never drinking again.

Why can’t I remember what he said?

We spend the ride home mostly in silence. Snow only opens his mouth to point out birds that he sees flying around. It starts raining while we’re passing Sheffield, and it’s still raining when we get to the village. We have to run inside with our luggage.

“Home sweet home,” Simon says, immediately throwing himself on the sofa. His hair is slightly wet from the rain and he looks beautiful.

I still can’t remember what he said. Maybe I should just ask him? But Snow has so far given no indication that he remembers _anything_ from last night. I mean, he was acting all weird and jumpy right before we left, but I think he was still avoiding Gareth and Davy. I have no idea why he’d be avoiding Davy, but he made it pretty clear last night that he doesn’t want to talk about it.

I sit down on the armchair. “So, I finished the appeal,” I start. He turns to look at me.

“You did? That’s great! So now what do we do, do we send it to your father?”

“No, we’re not sending it. You’re going to present it,” I say.

Snow makes a face. “What?”

“Yes, you have to present it to the whole team. What did you think this meeting was about, catching up on personal matters?” 

“But… I suck at presentations! I can’t do it!” he fumbles, looking panicked. I sigh.

“Yes, you can. I’ll teach you, alright? We’ll rehearse it.”

He bites his lip and furrows his eyebrows. “I can’t see that ending well,” he says.

“It won’t,” I stand up and stretch. “For you, I mean. We’ll start tomorrow.”

* * *

SIMON

It’s been a few days since we got back, and other than Baz’s desperate attempts to teach me how to speak publicly (he says I’m hopeless), nothing has changed. Baz still hasn’t shown any signs of remembering anything. I’m not even sure he actually meant what he said. It’s driving me mad. The worst part is that it’s been raining so heavily these past few days that I can’t even go out to work on the moor, so I’m just stuck in the house with him all day. It’s hell. My mind just keeps replaying the moments from Bonfire Night, knowing full well that he doesn’t remember anything. 

I’ve decided that I’m going to pretend I don’t remember either, just to spare myself the embarrassment. I know Baz would want me to tell him about what happened a few days ago and I can just see him looking at me like I’m an idiot while I explain to him how I nearly kissed him.

It’s the same face he’s giving me right now while I’m silently rehearsing my presentation.

I hate it. I shoot him a glare and he shrugs and goes back to reading his book.

Right. I can do this. I get back to muttering the words under my breath.

Something hits me in the head.

“What the fuck?” I pick up the crumpled tissue and turn to Baz. He’s obviously the culprit here. 

“Say 'um' one more time, Snow, and I’ll throw the whole damn box at you,” he says.

“You can’t just throw shit at me!” I object.

“Funny you say that, because I just did.”

“Arsehole,” I mutter, getting back to my speech, but keeping one eye on the tissue box… just in case.

Moments later, another tissue hits me in the head and falls on my lap. I pick it up and throw it back at Baz. He yanks the pillow from behind his back and tosses it at me.

“Okay, that’s it!” I drop my flashcards on the coffee table and grab the pillow, intending to launch it back at him as hard as possible. Baz senses that I’m about to do that, however, and runs into the kitchen.

“Attack, attack!”

I chase after him, still holding the pillow. That bastard is going to get it, if it’s the last thing I do. A tea towel flies in my direction, but doesn’t get very far.

“Looks like someone forgot about air resistance,” I tease him.

“Drop your weapons, you foe!” Baz says unnecessarily theatrically, holding up a wooden spoon like it’s a sword or a magic wand. What, is he going to defend himself with that? I laugh and throw the pillow at him, but he somehow manages to use the spoon as a shield. “Aha! You have nothing!” he gloats.

“Oh yeah?” I scramble to find another wooden spoon and hold it up to him. “Try me.”

“I see you have chosen death,” he says, his eyes lighting up. He’s trying to be dramatic, but he keeps smiling. I’m trying to think of some witty response, but my mind is coming up blank, and his smile is distracting. Instead, I just step forward and try to disarm him with my spoon. He attacks back, but I’m better at this than him, and I end up pushing him back until his back is pressed against the kitchen counter. We are standing very close together and I wonder if I could kiss him.

“What was that about death, again?” I grin, pressing the tip of the wooden spoon against his chest. I could kiss him. He’s right here. I have him cornered. And this time, our chances of being interrupted by Gareth are significantly lower.

I expect Baz to smirk, say something sarcastic or attempt to disarm me again (which he’s horrible at). Instead, the smile washes from his face and he’s staring down at me, his lips slightly parted and I could kiss him. Except his expression stops me – he looks totally panicked.

I step back.

Baz doesn’t want this. Of course, that shouldn’t surprise me. There was always a good chance it was just the alcohol talking back on Bonfire Night. I mean, why on earth would Baz want me?

“I should get back to my speech,” I mumble, throwing the spoon on the counter behind him.

I’m such an idiot.

BAZ

Simon was standing so infernally close again and I was thinking (hoping) he might kiss me. He touched my chest with that damned spoon and that’s when I remembered.

That night back at the inn, when I told him I didn’t want to start something when we were drunk. He kissed me on the forehead.

He said it could wait.

Simon Snow wants this. He wants me.

Or at least he did before he stormed out of the kitchen.

* * *

I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking about the event in the kitchen earlier today. Snow has barely spoken to me since, but I decided not to push him. He already has enough on his plate with the meeting coming up in a few days – he’s stressing out so much about the presentation, I don’t want to stress him any further by bringing all of this up.

Still, my heart is pounding.

He said it could wait. How long? Surely he would’ve said something by now?

Except he wouldn’t, because he doesn’t fucking remember. Maybe I should tell him? What’s the worst that could happen?

I groan into my pillow. I wish I wasn’t so damn inexperienced in this whole area. It’s not like I’ve never dated anybody, but it was never serious. I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone as much as I like Snow. Somehow, it makes the whole thing harder.

A loud crash wakes me from my thoughts, followed by Snow cursing. It sounds like it’s coming from the bathroom. I jump out of bed and open the door.

“Snow? Are you alright?” I call down the corridor.

“Yeah, I just knocked something over,” a muffled voice comes from the bathroom.

“You’re not very physically gifted, you know that?”

“Shut up, Baz,” Snow opens the door then. To my surprise, he’s fully dressed. He pushes past me towards the stairs.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Out. I can’t sleep.” Well, that makes two of us.

“Out? Out where?” I follow him down the stairs.

“The moor. I need to clear my head,” he says, putting on his shoes.

“Snow, it’s dark and it’s pouring. What if you get lost, or your car gets stuck in the mud?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’m coming with you then,” I say. I’ll be damned if I let him go out into the wilderness by himself, especially in this weather. He furrows his eyebrows at me.

“Alright, but hurry,” he finally says. I sprint back upstairs and grab the first sweater I can find, quickly pulling it on over my pyjamas. I consider changing my trackies for some jeans, but it’s dark, and nobody other than Snow is going to see me, so I just keep them on. When I get back downstairs, Snow already has his jacket and his hat on, and he’s playing with his car keys nervously.

“Okay,” I say, wrapping a scarf around my neck. “Let’s go.”

We drive out onto the moor in silence. I have no idea why Snow thinks this is a good idea. It’s muddy, and if his Jeep didn’t have a four-wheel drive, we’d probably have gotten stuck already. Plus, it’s so dark I have no idea where we actually are. Snow seems to know, though, because he parks suddenly and opens the car door.

“Whoa, where are you going?” I put my hand on his elbow, stopping him from exiting the car.

“I need some fresh air,” he says.

“It’s pouring!” I object. He slams the door shut and leans back on the driver’s seat.

“I hate the English weather sometimes,” he huffs.

We end up sitting in the open boot of his Jeep, listening to the downpour outside. We’re sitting with our backs against one of the sides of the boot, so the raindrops can’t get us, but it’s still absolutely freezing. I pull my legs up to my chest, staring at the makeshift light we’ve set up in front of us (a phone flashlight and a water bottle). I wish Simon had a blanket. 

Sitting in the boot was his idea, and it seems to be working, since he looks much calmer now.

“Are you alright?” I ask, bumping my shoulder against his. 

“Yeah, I just… felt like my head was going to explode,” he sighs.

“Because of the presentation?”

“Among other things.”

“Other things?” I ask but he shakes his head, not wanting to talk about it. 

“I can’t believe this is all going to be over in a few days,” he says instead. 

He’s right. Just two more days and I’m going back to London. The whole situation with the moor is going to be resolved and no matter the outcome, I don’t think I’ll see Simon again once this is all over. After all, I do work in London, and he works here, and the distance between us is just too big. 

I thought I was getting somewhere; I really did. I thought by the time this was all over, I’d figure out what I wanted to do in life, but I’m still just as confused (if not even more) as I was before. I thought Simon and I were maybe getting somewhere, but I had my chance and missed it, and now I’m not even sure if he still wants anything to do with me anymore. 

“Isn’t it great? You won’t have to do public speaking anymore, and nobody’s going to be hogging your sofa,” I say. I decide to keep my thoughts to myself. The realization that I’ll be leaving the village in a few days is harsh, but I don’t want to bum him out any further. 

Simon is quiet for a few moments, like he’s thinking. Then: “You won’t forget us, right?” 

The tone of his voice rips my heart out of my chest. This beautiful idiot is actually worried about me forgetting him - as if I could ever forget someone as wonderful as Simon Snow. As if he could leave my heart that easily. 

“I’m not going to forget you,” I say. My words hang heavy in the air. “I’ll come visit,” I add, just to shift some weight off my first sentence. To make it seem more like a casual conversation and less like a love confession (even though I’m not sure it’s _not_ a love confession). 

“You will?” Simon perks up. I smile at the excitement in his voice. 

“If you want me to.” 

Simon smiles too. “I reckon you could come in the summer. It really is beautiful that time of the year.” 

He starts to talk about the curlews and the frogs and the flowers and I close my eyes, leaning back against the car window. Summer is so far away and Simon’s voice is so lovely, and it’s so cold outside, and he’s so warm. I want to lean my head on his shoulder, I want to wrap myself around him, I want to close my eyes and have him tell me every little detail about the moor’s avifauna. 

I inch myself just a tiny bit closer to him, and he stops talking. 

“Are you tired?” he asks. 

“No, I’m fine. Keep talking.” 

“Because if you’re tired, we can go home,” Simon offers. 

“Are you going to sleep if we go home?” I ask, opening one eye to look at him. 

“Probably not.” 

“Then keep talking.” 

“Baz.” 

“It’s either that or you tell me why you can’t sleep.” 

“You wouldn’t be interested,” he says after a few seconds of silence. 

“Try me,” I retort. 

“Davy said I shouldn’t trust you,” he says. Oh. I’m going to pretend this doesn’t feel like a slap to the face.

“Okay then, Snow. No one’s forcing you to tell me,” I say, trying to sound as bored as possible. I mean, I thought we were getting _somewhere_. Even if nothing romantic could ever happen between us, I thought we were at least friends. That he trusted me. I guess not.

“No, no, I mean… remember that night at the pub when he said he wanted to talk to me? Well, he essentially just gave me a speech about how I shouldn’t trust you because you’re a Grimm and—”

“I’m a Pitch,” I cut him off.

“Yeah, _I know_ ,” Snow says, frustrated. “I tried telling him that you’re not like Malcolm, and that you’re trying to help us, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He just kept going on and on about how I shouldn’t trust you and it was so… frustrating.”

“Wait, so you do trust me?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. Simon gives me a weird look.

“Yes, of course. But he wouldn’t _get_ it. Really, Baz, I tried to tell him,” Simon’s voice sounds desperate. 

My mind is still stuck on the _yes, of course_. On the way he said it… without a shadow of a doubt.

“So, he doesn’t trust me. Big deal. It’s not like he has anything to do with the situation, right?” I finally say.

“No, he doesn’t…” Simon admits. “But I’m just not used to disagreeing with him.”

“Is that why you were avoiding him at the Bonfire Night?” I ask, forgetting for a moment that he probably doesn’t remember.

“Yes, I just didn’t want to— wait, you know about that?” he looks up at me, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Um, yes. You told me. You had a whole hide and seek situation with Davy and Gareth – I don’t know if you remember, but it was quite entertaining.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. He’s going to want to know how the rest of the night went, and I don’t want to recap those events out loud (even though I replay them in my head constantly). 

“You remember that?” Simon asks again.

Wait. Does Simon remember that? If he remembered, why would he be quiet about it?

Because he doesn’t fucking want this, that’s why. Because he was just drunk that night. Of course – why did I ever think there was anything more to it?

If he remembered the Bonfire Night and he knew _I_ remembered it too, then the only reason he’d keep quiet about it would be if he didn’t want this.

“I remember,” I finally say.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did. I told you the morning after,” I say, confused. Why does he think I don’t remember? I mean, he _must_ know that I know. I told him I remember there were stars.

Then the realisation hits me, and I almost want to laugh. He didn’t get what I was saying. This fucking idiot didn’t get what I was saying and we’ve both spent the past few days thinking the other one didn’t remember. Fucking hell. We’re both bloody idiots.

“Simon,” I start slowly. “I thought _you_ didn’t remember.”

“No, no, I remember everything,” he says. I can see the outline of his smile in the dark. He must be realizing how stupid this whole situation is.

“Everything?” I ask.

“Everything,” he confirms.

“Even the…” my voice trails off. I can’t quite say it out loud. I’m not that brave.

Simon is, however. Which doesn’t fucking surprise me. Of course he is.

“Yes,” he confirms, still smiling. I smile too.

This is the part where I should do something about the situation. Kiss him, take his hand, anything – but I’m just staring at him, feeling half-paralyzed. He’s smiling, and I think that’s good. I should take his hand. I should…

“Baz,” Simon finally speaks. “Can I kiss you?”

And I guess I must’ve given him some sort of confirmation, because the next moment, Simon Snow is kissing me. His hand cups my face, and his lips are so warm, and it takes me a few seconds to realize I should probably be kissing him back.

He’s good at this. Really fucking good. He knots his fingers in my hair and pushes me back even further, and when he runs his tongue along the bottom of my lip, my insides turn to mush. 

His breath hitches when I bite his lip and I can’t help but smile. Not that I can smile for long, though, because the fucker starts kissing me even more vigorously.

Simon Snow is kissing me. He’s got his fingers in my hair, and he’s pushing me back, and my mind blinks out.

I’m living a charmed fucking life.

SIMON

If I had known kissing Baz would be this good, I’d have done it ages ago. He’s gripping my shoulders and I don’t think he plans on letting me go, ever. That’s fine by me.

And he’s no longer shivering. Still, I push myself closer to him and his hands come up to cup my face.

I don’t know how long we’ve been kissing for, but we’re slowing down now, I think. My fingers start stroking his cheek and he pulls away, but not very far – our foreheads are still touching. His breath is still warm against my cheek.

“So I’m guessing that’s a yes?” I say, finally breaking the silence. Baz’s face breaks out in a grin and moments later, he starts peppering little kisses all over my face.

“You’re an absolute fucking nightmare, Simon,” he mumbles before pressing a kiss to my forehead.

“Come on,” I say, taking his hand. “Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slow has been burned
> 
> An announcement, this fic will probably come up to around 16 chapters (15 chapters + epilogue, maybe?)  
> I'm not saying for certain because I have a knack for accidentally adding more chapters but we are for sure nearing the end  
> Anyway just putting that out there
> 
> As always, thank you for all your lovely comments and also here's [my tumblerino](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire) where I am inactive af  
> I also just realized I spelled it "tumbr" in all of the previous chapters so I will now proceed to dig my grave (i just have the code for embedding on copy paste and I didn't even notice the typo). Oh well, I have to edit all the previous chapters to make the paragraphs double spaced anyway


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something isn’t right, I know it.  
> It’s not like my father to reschedule a meeting spontaneously. He’s very rigid about his schedule – once something is written down and settled, he will stick to that time and date, come rain or shine.  
> I’m not saying it’s not possible that he rescheduled the meeting so hastily – there’s always a possibility that something came up and that there was no way around it. I just think it’s unlikely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, again I am so so sorry for taking so long to update   
> University started again so I didn't have as much time and I also had writer's block on ch15, so I told myself no publishing 13 until you finish 15  
> Anyway, this chapter is a bit longer than usual and I hope y'all still remember the actual plot of this fic because now we're returning to it
> 
> As always, thank you so much to [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading

SIMON

Snogging your flatmate until one in the morning is probably not a good idea if you have to get up at five. I feel like I’ve just closed my eyes when the alarm clock rings.

Baz groans next to me and I have to agree with him. I’m going to need at least two cups of coffee to keep me sufficiently awake now.

Or maybe not. It sounds like it’s still pouring outside, which means I wouldn’t have to go do patrols. I’d have to check, though, so I carefully untangle myself from Baz and tiptoe to the window.

Yep. The weather is definitely still shit. When it’s raining this much, the visibility gets so bad you can’t see any animals. Ebb and I usually just do a routine car check then, but that can wait until later today.

I crawl back into bed. I never thought I’d be happy that the weather is too bad to go to the moor, but here we are.

“Change of plans?” Baz mutters as I slide my arm around his waist.

“It’s still raining.”

“God bless the English weather.” 

The next time we’re awoken, it’s by Baz’s phone. It’s already bright outside, and I don’t know what time it is, but I feel considerably more awake than before.

“Are you going to get that?” I ask, lifting my head off of Baz’s shoulder.

“Eventually,” Baz mumbles, stretching. His head falls to the side, and he looks at me. “Sleep well?”

“Mhm,” I say, grabbing Baz’s phone off my nightstand. The ringing is driving me crazy. “Here,” I hand him the phone. He rolls his eyes but takes it.

“If you want me to ignore you so badly,” he starts, looking down at the caller ID. His face falls. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he mutters and sits up to answer his phone. “Good morning, Father. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Whatever Baz’s dad is saying, it’s taking a long time, because Baz is just sitting there, looking like he wants the conversation to be over. I reach my hand out to touch his back.

“You can’t do that,” Baz finally speaks again and I think it’s directed at me, so I quickly pull my hand away. Then I realize he’s still talking on the phone. “No, you said Thursday. That’s in two days.”

I sit up. Thursday? The meeting is on Thursday. Did they move it up? Did they cancel it? I shoot Baz a questioning look, but he just shakes his head.

“Well a heads up would’ve been nice. Give us a few hours – we’ll be there,” he says. They’re definitely talking about the meeting. They must’ve moved it up by a few days. I feel anxiety start to rise in my chest. I’m not ready to do this yet.

I expect Baz to hang up, but he’s still listening to his father, his eyebrows furrowed. He keeps glancing at me. I’m getting really nervous.

“Alright, I’ll check with him. See you,” he says, finally hanging up. His eyebrows are still furrowed as he stares down at his phone.

“They’ve moved up the meeting, haven’t they?” I ask.

“Yep. It's this afternoon.” Baz nods. I jump out of bed.

“Come on then, we have to go!” The sooner we’re in London, the better. I rush to my drawers, looking for clothes that aren’t muddy or visibly cheap. Baz is still sitting on my bed. “Baz!” I urge him.

“Check your email first,” he says. I stop in my tracks.

“What?” We’re in a time sensitive situation and he wants me to check my email? I can do that in the car!

“Please.” He picks up my phone and hands it to me.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” I sigh, snatching my phone from his hands and unlocking it. I refresh my Gmail app, but nothing new pops up. “No emails. Can we go now?”

Baz looks confused. “Nothing? What about text messages?”

“No, nothing. Why, what’s going on?” I ask, growing more anxious by the second. Baz sighs.

“My father said you’ve been taken off the case. Davy’s taking your place,” he says. I almost want to laugh from relief. That’s it?

“So… I don’t have to do the presentation?” I sit on the edge of my bed.

“I’m sorry…” Baz starts, but I cut him off.

“No, no, that’s great. I mean, this was supposed to be Davy’s case anyway. He only assigned me to it because he didn’t have the time. I actually asked him if he could take it over, but he said it was my responsibility. I guess he changed his mind.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious? I mean, you really didn’t get anything from him? Because my father said Davy sent you an email about it yesterday and that you agreed.”

“No, I definitely didn’t get anything,” I say, refreshing my Gmail app again. I even check the spam folder. Nothing there either. “He probably just forgot to send it.” I shrug.

“I think you should come to London anyway,” he says. “Something feels odd here. You were supposed to get an email and you didn’t get anything and the meeting suddenly gets rescheduled with only a few hours’ notice?”

“Do you think your father did that so that I wouldn’t come?” I ask. Baz shakes his head.

“I don’t know. It’s not like him to do so, and he still called me to let me know that it was rescheduled even though he knows I’m staying at your place.”

“Then I don’t understand…”

“Me neither. But please, just come to London. Best case scenario, the two of you take the case against my father together, and worst case scenario, you hang around in London for a few hours.”

Yes, Baz is right. I should still come to London, just in case. And if Davy’s on the case then I can just relax and go visit Penny. I haven’t seen her in a while.

“Alright.” I stand up. “Let’s go.”

BAZ

Something isn’t right, I know it.

It’s not like my father to reschedule a meeting spontaneously. He’s very rigid about his schedule – once something is written down and settled, he will stick to that time and date, come rain or shine.

I’m not saying it’s not possible that he rescheduled the meeting so hastily – there’s always a possibility that something came up and that there was no way around it. I just think it’s  _ unlikely _ .

And the fact that Simon didn’t even know that Davy took over from him…

To be honest, I’m angry about that part. Simon and I have spent  _ weeks _ working on this appeal and now there’s a good chance it won’t even see the light of day. And yes, I know Simon considers Davy to be smarter and more experienced with negotiations, but honestly, he doesn’t exactly have a shining history of winning negotiations against my father. In my opinion, Simon is still better prepared for this meeting than Davy.

I don’t mention any of this to Simon. He’s as relaxed as I’ve seen him in days (well, with the exception of last night) now that he knows his mentor is on the case. I’m still hoping that somehow we can get both Simon to say his bit and Davy to say whatever he wants to say. I think that maximizes our chances of success. I just hope Simon will be on board. I know how much he dreads public speaking.

We arrive in London with two hours to spare, and Simon wants to see my flat. I’d like to change my clothes anyway, so I take us there. I’m sort of dreading it, because I know Fiona is home and I don’t want her to pick up on anything between me and Snow (mainly because I don’t want to deal with the inevitable embarrassment, but also because I don’t even know if Snow and I  _ are _ anything). She’s awfully good at making fun of me.

“Your flat’s not as posh as I imagined.” Simon smiles, looking around while I take off my shoes.

“Contrary to popular belief, I am not that posh.” I roll my eyes, leading him to the kitchen.

“Yeah you are,” Simon retorts.

“Yeah he is,” a voice echoes from the lounge. Fiona. “Hello to you too, Basil. Nice to see you still remember where you live.”

I sigh and head to the lounge. Fiona is sitting on the sofa, still in her dressing gown, with her computer on her lap. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun and she’s got her ashtray balanced on the armrest, even though she knows I hate it when she smokes inside. She only does it when I’m not home, but I wish she wouldn’t.

Simon is right behind me, and she raises her eyebrows at him. I clench my jaw, hoping she doesn’t say anything weird.

“You brought back-up,” she observes.

“Fiona, this is Simon. Simon, this is my aunt. Okay, now that we’re all acquainted, would anyone like sushi?” It’s been scientifically proven that Fiona is 30% less embarrassing if she has a decent amount of maki rolls in front of her. Mostly because her mouth is too full to talk.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Fiona stops me. She moves her tea cup and pats the empty space next to her, nodding at Simon. “You, come sit. Baz, are you paying for sushi?”

Simon, of course, takes her invitation and swaggers off to the sofa. Oh god, I don’t see this ending well. 

“Yes,” I roll my eyes. 

“Then I’ll have the usual.”

I turn to Simon. “You?”

“Oh, um, I’ll just… have whatever’s cheapest,” he stammers. Fiona shoots me a look and I make a point to ignore it.

“I’ll just order you what I’m having,” I sigh, taking out my phone to look up the sushi place.

“So, Simon, what do you do?” Fiona turns to Simon while I type in our orders.

“Um… conservation ecology.”

“Oh so you’re the bloke whose house Baz has been camping out at for the past month or so?” she says. I make a point to sigh audibly.

“Um, yes,” Simon says, glancing over at me.

“He’s an awful flatmate, isn’t he?”

“I’m in the room, Fiona,” I sneer, looking up from my phone.

“Um…” Snow’s ears are bright red. If it wasn’t at my expense, I might actually be enjoying this. It’s cute when Simon gets all flustered.

“Always leaves the toilet seat up…” Fiona rambles on.

“Well, uh, I’m a guy so I suppose I don’t really notice that bit,” Simon stammers.

“I ordered the sushi,” I announce. “Snow, do you want to see my room?”

Simon practically launches off the sofa and I catch Fiona’s smirk. She must be bloody pleased with herself, having successfully made him uncomfortable.

This is exactly why I never bring a bloke home. (Well, not that I ever really had a reason to, but still.) (I would not want to subject anyone to Fiona’s poking and prodding.)

Simon follows me down the corridor into my room. It’s not much – the walls used to be littered with posters from when I first moved here as a teenager and I finally had the liberty of hanging things up my wall (which wasn’t allowed in my room in Hampshire). However, a few years ago, I took them all down, and Fiona and I repainted the wall, so it looks more minimalistic now, which I like. The only thing I have in abundance are books, which is also the first thing Simon notices.

“You have a lot of books,” he observes, stepping forward to read the titles on their spines.

I shrug. “I like to read.” I don’t know what to do with myself – I’m becoming painfully aware of the fact that we’re alone. I lean on my desk, trying to pretend I’m not losing it a little bit on the inside. I mean, he’s in my room. And we’re alone. And we kissed a lot last night, and I’m thinking we could maybe do it again – even if there is a possibility of my aunt walking in on us.

“Yeah?” he asks, taking a few steps forward and positioning himself next to me. Our shoulders are touching.

“If I didn’t get into LSE, I’d probably study literature,” I say, pretending to be more interested by the edge of my desk than by his sudden proximity. “I might still…I mean, I’ve been thinking about doing it online. Possibly,” I add. I haven’t actually told that to anyone yet, but it’s been on my mind for a long time — almost since I graduated. 

“I think you should do it,” he says, his shoulder bumping against mine.

“Mhm, I’ll see,” I mutter. The truth is that I’m scared of studying literature. What if I end up really liking it and realizing I made a mistake choosing economics? Hell, I already think I made a mistake choosing economics.

“Baz?”

“Hm?”

“Can you stop overthinking?” 

It makes me laugh. “I’m not overthinking,” I say.

“Yeah you are. You get this look on your face when you do that.”

“What look?”

“Frowning.”

I laugh again. “I’m not frowning. You’d know if I was frowning.”

“You’re frowning,” he objects. His hand reaches out to touch my cheek. “See, frowning,” he says, as if this is conclusive evidence. I look at him. I want to tell him that I’m not frowning. I also want to kiss him.

“You’re an idiot” is what I settle for. He barely has the chance to smile before I kiss him.

He’s much better at responding to a kiss in a timely manner than I am. His arms wrap around my neck almost immediately, pulling me closer to him.

I like this. I like having the height advantage over him. I like sliding my hands around his waist and pressing him back against my desk. I definitely like the surprised sound he makes when I do that.

I kiss him harder, and his hands are in my hair, and I would gladly keep doing this forever. Unfortunately for me, the doorbell rings, and I jump back.

“The food is here,” Simon says, stating the obvious. His hand is still cupping my cheek, and his blue eyes are wide. I want to kiss him again. I hear Fiona’s footsteps shuffling in the hall.

“Fiona’s getting it,” I say, also stating the obvious. Simon is still staring at me. “Which means she’ll be here any minute.”

“Mhm,” he hums. Neither of us move – I don’t think he understands what I’m trying to say.

“Which means we have to look like we haven’t just been snogging,” I try again.

“Oh, um, right,” he steps aside, his face flushed. “You should probably fix your hair then. It’s a bit uh… messed up.”

I shake my head, but I can’t help but to smile. By the time Fiona barges into my room with takeout boxes of sushi, my hair is back to normal, and we hopefully don't look like we've just been making out.

“Food is here, kids,” she announces. As I walk past her into the kitchen, she gives me a sly look, and I know.Of course she’s bloody picked up on it.

SIMON

Baz changes into a suit just before we head to his father’s office. I try not to stare at him as we walk down the corridors of his office building, but I still do. I’m not the only one, though. People are turning their heads to watch him in practically every office space we go through. Does Baz really have that much influence here? Or has he just been the topic of office gossip, having disappeared for a month?

He seems like an entirely different person here, and it’s not just because of the suit. He's wearing a bored, closed-off expression, the kind that always makes me frustrated when he directs it at me.

I wish I knew what he was thinking.

We reach his father’s office and I expect him to ask me to wait outside, but he holds the door for me as well. I try to pretend like walking into Malcolm Grimm’s office isn’t a fairly terrifying thing to do. Walking through this whole office building has been unnerving at best. It’s like swimming with sharks. Except sharks are cool, and these people are… not.

“Good afternoon, Father,” Baz sits down on one of the chairs, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he does so. He’s so natural. I sit on the chair next to him, not entirely sure what to do with my arms or where to look. I just settle for staring at the edge of Mr Grimm’s desk. 

“Ah, I see you’ve brought Mr Snow,” his father observes. I raise my hand to say hi, then realize that is probably not an appropriate gesture for this setting.

“Uh, hello,” I choke out instead. His dad gives me a bored once-over. Ah. I see where Baz gets it from.

“Well, yes, he was with me when I got the call, and we figured professor Mage might want some backup,” Baz says. Malcolm’s eyes glisten and I can’t believe my ears. Davy’s qualified to do this on his own. If anyone needs additional help, it should be me!

I was so relieved that I wouldn’t have to do the presentation, so why is Baz trying to drag me into it again?

“I see, but unfortunately, there can only be one Watford Institute representative at the meeting. We’re already on a tight schedule and having two of them would just take too long. However, Mr Snow can sit in the meeting as an outsider if that’s what you want.”

I wish they would stop talking about me like I’m not in the room. Baz’s lips are a thin line, but he nods. “Alright,” he finally turns to me. “Simon, are you cool with that?”

I nod my head in agreement. 

“What are you doing?” I hiss at Baz as soon as we’re out of his father’s office. Baz sighs like he saw it coming. Good. Maybe next time this will make him consider my wishes before suggesting dumb shit like that. “You know it’s no longer my case, and I told you that Davy’s capable of handling it on his own. He doesn’t need me!”

“Can’t you see something’s off here? My father doesn’t reschedule meetings if he can help it. And you should’ve been told you’d been taken off the case but you weren’t!” Baz says while leading me down another set of corridors. It’s a struggle to catch up with him.

“Nothing’s off, he just forgot!” I object. “You don’t know Davy, this literally happens all the time.”

“Listen,” Baz turns around then, facing me. I stop in my tracks. “I’d just feel better if you were here. You know what to do, and you know what to say, and if anything goes wrong, you can always jump in, yeah? Can you do that for me?”

I furrow my eyebrows. “Davy knows what to say, Baz. He’s better at this than me,” I say. I don’t understand why he’s acting like this. I was so relieved when I found out Davy was taking over from me – he knows so much better than I do. With him there, I really feel like we could win this thing.

“Well in that case, you get to sit there and learn something new,” Baz sounds like he’s at his wit’s end. I don’t want him to be frustrated, but at the same time, I’m still mad at him because he tried to get me back in without consulting me first. And I don’t understand how he doesn’t see the good in this situation… But I guess he’s right. If not anything else, at least I’ll get to see how Davy handles these negotiations. It’s going to be a good learning experience in case I ever have to do this again.

“Okay,” I finally say. Baz’s shoulders roll back and he sighs in relief. Was he genuinely worried about my answer? I suddenly feel bad. (But I still wish he had told me about his concerns  _ before _ we went to his father’s office.)

“I’m going to get a coffee. Do you want anything?” he asks.

“No, I’m good.”

“Okay. The conference room is just down this hall.”

I go to the conference room, and I'm heading for the seats in the back when I hear a voice behind me.

“Simon? What are you doing here?” It’s Davy.

“Oh, um, I’m here with Baz. Don’t worry, I won’t get in the way of your presentation,” I say.

“Okay, but how did you even find out the meeting was today? It was very last minute and you must’ve had a long drive.”

“I was with Baz when his dad called him about the meeting and then we drove to London as soon as we found out,” I say. “Although next time I’d appreciate an email about it beforehand,” I add. Just because I know he forgot to send it doesn’t mean I’m cool with it. I mean, Baz is right about that part – it is a bit rude to take someone off the case and not even tell them about it. I do understand he was busy, though.

“Ah yes, I got so caught up in other things. I was thinking about what you said to me last week, and I realized you’re right – I should be on the case. I called up Mr Grimm as soon as I realized that, and then I got so busy preparing for the meeting that it must’ve completely slipped my mind. I apologise, Simon,” he says.

“It’s alright sir,” I suddenly feel bad. I knew he was busy and that’s why he probably forgot to tell me. I’m being a total ass about it.

Baz shows up then, holding a cup of coffee.

“Oh hello, Mr Grimm the younger,” Davy greets him then, his voice cold. I feel a pang in my chest. I hate that Davy  _ still _ doesn’t trust Baz.

“Pitch,” Baz corrects him, his voice bored. He turns to me. “Simon, shall we?”

I don’t know what suddenly prompted him to call me Simon in front of other people. Maybe he wants them to know we’re friends. (Or whatever it is that we are – not that the nature of our relationship really matters in this situation.) (Still, we should probably discuss that at some point.)

I turn to follow Baz just as his father walks in the room. The chatter quiets down, and everyone takes their seats. I start to get nervous. This is really happening.

“Good afternoon everyone,” Baz’s dad starts, taking a seat at the head of the table. “Sorry for rescheduling this on such a short notice— it was the only thing that could work with professor Mage’s schedule. Now I’m sure you all know why we’re here, so I’ll just let professor Mage take over from here.” He sounds surprisingly cheerful. When I was here last month, his voice was ice cold, but it seems like he actually has some respect for Davy.

That’s good. It improves our chances.

Davy stands up, spreading some papers in front of him. “So, I would like to start with some general information about the Mummer’s moor,” he says and starts talking about the square footage of the moor, the number of species found there, the type of vegetation and all of the other things we tell school children when they have field trips on the moor in spring. The businessmen look slightly bored. I’m hoping he moves on to the ecological importance soon.

“Ecologically speaking, the moor is a safe haven for many species of birds, which either nest there in the summer or fly over from colder countries in the winter. Birds migrate solely because of food, meaning that if the food sources on the moor were to drop, they would move to a different habitat. So if your company were to build on the moor, we can expect a significant drop in ornithological biodiversity due to lack of food and-”

He’s still talking and I can’t believe my ears. The birds won’t move to a different place if the moor gets built over. Curlews return to the same breeding habitat every year – if they don’t have food available, their babies could die. And red grouse don’t generally fly and they certainly don’t migrate. He’s just putting it like the birds will simply fly to other areas and he knows it’s not true. And never mind the birds! What about mammals and amphibians and invertebrates who can’t migrate? What about plant life? Are we just going to gloss over all the endangered plant species that grow on the moor?

Baz turns to me, giving me a questioning look as if to check with me whether what Davy is saying is true. I shake my head.

This is all wrong.

“Excuse me,” I raise my voice, cutting Davy off. “I would just like to point out a crucial bit of information here, uh, not all birds migrate. And um, even if they did, the birds of Mummer’s moor migrating to other habitats would cause other habitats to be overcrowded and-”

“Mr Snow, I believe you are sitting in this meeting as an outsider, and therefore, it is not your place to partake in this discussion,” Malcolm Grimm cuts me off. “Professor Mage, do continue.”

I lean back in my chair, trying not to let my anxiety swallow me whole. Davy keeps talking like building over the moor would just be a minor setback for England’s biodiversity. Everything he’s saying is wrong.

We are fucked.

We are so, so fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> send me hate mail [here](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire)
> 
> (As always, thank you for your lovely comments <3)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know what to do. I genuinely don’t know what to do.  
> Baz says we’ll figure something out. He says I should report Davy to the head of WICN since this probably isn’t the first time he’s done this, but I don’t know if the people leading WICN are just as corrupt as Davy is.  
> I don’t know anything anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading

BAZ

We lost. Of course, we fucking lost, given all the bullshit Davy’s been spewing out the whole meeting. Even I know enough about ecology to realize he was saying utter crap. Simon practically wanted to jump out of his seat, and I don’t blame him. I think the only reason he didn’t jump out of his seat is because he was still so shocked over the fact his mentor would actually do that.

I’m convinced this wasn’t a coincidence. The man didn’t even _try_. He practically gave over the moor to my father.

Why take Simon off the case when Davy himself clearly wasn’t prepared for this meeting at all?

The meeting’s over now and everyone’s clearing up their stuff. Simon is staring blankly at the space in front of him. I put my hand on his shoulder. I have no idea what to say.

“Simon…” I start, but the moment I say his name, he jumps up and runs out of the room. Right, this can’t be good. I grab my things and follow him, ignoring all the weird looks I’m getting.

It’s not hard to find him. He’s just down the corridor and he has Davy cornered, looking like he’s about to explode.

“It’s not true, you know it’s not true! Why would you lie?” he yells. All heads turn to their direction and I quickly approach them, grabbing them both by the elbows.

“Not here.” I mutter, pulling them into one of the empty conference rooms. I shut the door behind us, making sure to sneer at everyone staring while I do so.

“I didn’t lie, Simon…” Davy starts but both mine and Simon’s glares shut him up.

“Don’t fucking bullshit me,” Simon scowls. I’ve never seen him this angry – and it’s completely justified. “You know what would happen if we build on the moor! You know how many animals that would kill!”

“Animals die all the time, Simon, it’s a part of life. You know those curlews of yours don’t live forever,” Davy’s voice sounds annoyed. I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to punch anyone more.

“Yeah but we don’t _kill_ them! We don’t tank their populations _on purpose_!” Simon’s voice breaks at the end and it breaks my heart.

“Can’t you see how this is a good thing?” Davy finally yells back. It shuts Simon up and he jerks like someone’s just slapped him. “Look at it this way, Simon. Yes, we lose the moor, but Mr Grimm has agreed to give the Institute a share of the profits made from the project. We could use the money.”

I can’t believe my ears. Neither does Simon, apparently, because he doesn’t say anything, just stares at him.

“I’m sorry, you _sold_ my father the moor?” I finally break the silence. “What about the people who work there? Are Simon and Ebb just going to be unemployed now?”

“Oh, relax, Ebb only works there part time. She still has the clinic. And we’re going to find something for Simon. With the new money, we can finally start extensively tracking puffin populations in Wales. You’d be interested in that, wouldn’t you, Simon?”

Simon is staring blankly again and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything.

When he finally speaks, his voice is so small. “You sold the moor.” 

“That was the plan all along,” Davy sounds annoyed again. “The only reason I sent you in the first place was because I thought they’d turn you down. I didn’t think you’d actually _get_ anywhere with the negotiations. You don’t even have a PhD yet.”

I swear to god, one more word out of this man’s mouth, and I will start throwing punches.

“But of course, you had to team up with Grimm Jr and actually come up with a plan, so I had to interfere. Sorry, Simon, I know the moor is important to you but we need the money.”

“You moved up the meeting,” I say, “so he wouldn’t come.” 

Davy nods.

“Get out,” Simon says then, his voice ice cold. “Just get the fuck out.”

Davy grabs his coat and heads for the door.

“For what it’s worth, Simon, I really am sorry,” Davy says.

“Oh, fuck off,” I snap, closing the door behind him.

Simon starts to cry as soon as Davy is out of the room, and I move to hug him. He doesn’t push me away, just buries his face in my shoulder. His tears are forming wet stains on my shirt but I don’t care. I wrap my arms tighter around him.

“I’m sorry, love. I’m so sorry.”

SIMON

I don’t know what to do. I genuinely don’t know what to do.

Baz says we’ll figure something out. He says I should report Davy to the head of WICN since this probably isn’t the first time he’s done this, but I don’t know if the people leading WICN are just as corrupt as Davy is.

I don’t know anything anymore.

I spent the night after the meeting at Penny’s place. Baz offered to stay, but I told him to go back to his own flat. He’s already done enough for me.

I’m back home now. I didn’t tell Baz I was leaving. We got to London in Baz’s car, so I took the first morning train back. There’s no train station in our village so Ebb had to pick me up with her car one village over. We barely spoke on the way back – she was just as devastated as I am.

Baz texted me multiple times to check on me, but I didn’t open any of his messages.

I’ve properly fucked him over, and I feel so bad. He went against his family business to help me, and I blew it by letting Davy take over from me. Baz knew something was wrong, and I didn’t listen to him.

I can’t imagine what trouble he must be in with his father. Fuck, he might lose his job too.

All of this is my fault.

It’s weird to think that last time I was in my house, everything was perfect. I remember kissing Baz in the foyer after we got back home from the moor, and us stumbling to the sofa, where I kissed him again until my lips were sore. And when I got really sleepy, he took my hand and led me upstairs and then ran his fingers through my hair until I fell asleep. 

I go upstairs now, but I go into Baz’s room instead of mine. All of his things are still here and his bed is neatly made. The black hoodie he was wearing on the day we left for Morecambe is flung across his desk chair and I take it, pulling it over my shirt. Then I crawl into his bed, wrapping myself in his duvet.

I don’t want Baz here right now – I still feel awful for putting him through all of this only to have it ruined in the end – but being surrounded by his smell seems like the most comforting option at the moment. At least that way I can imagine he’s hugging me and maybe I can pretend I didn’t just fuck up everything.

The tiredness eventually gets to me – I haven’t slept all night, and I’m exhausted from all the crying. I wrap myself tighter in Baz’s duvet and close my eyes.

BAZ

“I need to talk to you.”

My father looks up from his work and sighs. “I’m busy, Basilton,” he says, but I pay no concern to his words and sit on one of the chairs in his office.

“It’s about the moor. I’d like to have another meeting.”

My father sighs again, wrinkling his forehead. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’m having a meeting with the investors tomorrow and after that, the deal is sealed. We cannot afford to schedule another meeting on such a short notice. Besides, do you think your friend could really do it any better than the leading expert in his field?”

“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m asking you to give him a chance. Let him say his bit. Yes, professor Mage has tons of experience on the topic, but Simon actually works on the moor. He knows it better than anyone. And I actually found so many alternatives to your project that-”

“Basilton, when I initially invited you to this meeting it was because I wanted you to learn how to _deal_ with the environmentalists, not become one of them.”

“Yeah, but what we’re doing isn’t _right_.”

“Right? Who cares about right? And when was the last time anyone in England actually cared about what birds we have nesting on some moor in the middle of nowhere? People want housing, Basilton, and if you’re willing to care more about some flowers than about making deals then maybe this job isn’t for you.”

I take a deep breath and stand up. “Okay then. I’m not sure I want it anyway.”

He’s meeting with the investors tomorrow. That means I have approximately twenty four hours to find a solid reason for my father to give the moor another chance.

It’s mission impossible – but I’m not willing to give up just yet. My hands are shaking as I press the button on the lift.

We have twenty four hours. I need to talk to Simon.

Finding Simon turns out to be an issue, though. He’s not answering any of my messages so I drive to his best friend’s flat, where I dropped him off yesterday.

“I need to talk to Simon,” I say when she opens the door.

“Who are you?” she furrows her eyebrows at me.

“Baz Pitch, pleasure to meet you, where’s Simon?” I don’t exactly have time for pleasantries.

“He left this morning,” his friend says, crossing her arms. I think her name is Penny?

“Left? Left to go where?”

“Home. He left about two hours ago.”

I don’t say anything else, just turn around on my heel and run back down the stairs.

“Pleasure meeting you too!” I hear Penny yelling behind me, but I don’t answer. I need to return to the village as soon as possible.

I pray Simon isn’t on the moor. I tried calling him a few times on my drive there, but it went straight to voicemail.

_Please be home_ , I think as I drive through his village. If he went out on the moor, it would be impossible to find him. I’d have no choice but to wait for him to come back, which could take hours – hours we don’t have. I already lost two and a half hours driving here from London.

When I pull up in front of Snow’s house, his car is still there and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so relieved in my life. His car here means he’s probably home – unless he went with Ebb.

I ring the bell, but there’s no answer, so I dig out my keys and unlock the house. Normally, I wouldn’t just barge in uninvited, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

My hands are shaking as I fumble with the lock. What if Simon doesn’t want to see me? Everything so far has been a certain indicator of that – not answering my texts, running away from London – he probably hates me right now.

But I need to talk to him. I need to fix this. 

His shoes are still here. So is his coat. Good, that means he’s definitely home.

“Snow!” I call out. No answer.

He’s not in the kitchen. Or on the sofa. I go upstairs to his room but he’s not there either. What the fuck? Where on earth could he be? His house is not that big.

I open the door to my room then and am met with a most heart-melting sight.

Simon Snow is asleep in my bed. He’s got the duvet wrapped around him, and his hair is a curly mess against my pillow, and I suddenly feel very flushed with warm feelings for him.

I walk over to him. I’d hate to wake him, but we’re in a time sensitive situation. I kneel on his side of the bed, gently placing an arm on his shoulder.

“Simon,” I shake him slightly. “Come on, love, wake up.”

He groans and buries his nose in my pillow. What would I give that I could just lie down next to him and not have to worry about the whole moor situation.

“Come on,” I shake him again. Simon’s eyes snap open, as if he’s just now recognized my voice.

“Baz? What are you doing here?” He sits up quickly and the duvet falls around him. I notice he’s wearing my hoodie and my heart flutters – this boy is too much for me. I feel my face flushing red, but I try not to let that distract me.

“I need to talk to you,” I say. Simon furrows his eyebrows.

“Why?”

“We have approximately twenty two hours left to find something that will convince my father to give the moor another chance. I figured I could use your help.”

“Baz, I…”

“Simon,” I grab his hand. He doesn’t pull away, just stares at our hands. “I don’t want to give up yet. Do you?”

“No, but-”

“Then come on,” I cut him off. “We can’t lose any more time.”

“Baz, listen to me. I don’t want to get my hopes up again, okay? What are the chances we actually change your father’s mind?” he looks at me and his eyes are full of tears. It hurts to see him like this – he doesn’t deserve any of this.

I sit next to him on the bed, my free hand reaching to rub his back.

“They’re not very good,” I admit. “But we have to at least try.”

Simon lets go of my hand and pulls his legs up to his chest, hugging them. He’s biting his lip and I know he’s trying hard not to let his tears spill over.

Just seeing him like this makes me want to burn down my father’s whole company.

“Okay,” Simon says after taking a few deep breaths. “What do you have in mind?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!   
> Sorry this is a bit shorter than usual, I ended up moving one scene to Chapter 15   
> Speaking of chapters, there's only going to be two more chapters! I still have to edit them, but I'll try to get them up sometime next week! I kinda can't believe it's almost over
> 
> Also wink wink if you check [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire) there's a deleted scene on there somewhere that I didn't end up writing in because it disrupted the conversation and was essentially just me revising phylogeny through fanfiction, anyway if anyone wants to check it out it's [here](https://vampire-named-gampire.tumblr.com/post/632608240556965888/wip-wednesday)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We end up going to the office at the moor. That place is littered with old documents, and I’m hoping we can find something indicating that the moor is protected by the law – even if the law is old and outdated. It’s a long shot, but it’s our best shot. If my father finds loopholes in laws, why can’t we?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading this!

BAZ

We end up going to the office at the moor. That place is littered with old documents, and I’m hoping we can find something indicating that the moor is protected by the law – even if the law is old and outdated. It’s a long shot, but it’s our best shot. If my father finds loopholes in laws, why can’t we?

Simon drops the first huge binder on his desk.

“Do you actually know anything about law?” he asks.

“A bit. But my friend Niall’s a lawyer and he’ll help us once we find something,” I say, pulling the binder closer to me and flipping it open. I can already tell this is going to be exhausting. Simon sits on the floor and opens another binder. He’s still wearing my hoodie and he’s got a mug of coffee placed next to his leg. I didn’t sleep a lot last night, but Simon’s far worse off than me. If we weren’t in such an urgent situation, I’d be kicking myself for waking him up.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

It is tedious work. We’ve been at it for hours now and we still haven’t found anything useful. Every joint in my body hurts from sitting for so long. My eyes feel heavy and tired. I’m going to need another coffee soon.

I’m checking the details on this document that I found, but I don’t think it’s going to be anything helpful.

“Hm, this is funny,” Simon says suddenly, looking at a piece of paper in his hand.

“What is?” I ask, leaning on my hand.

“Well, the moor used to accept donations back in the nineties, before the Institute got governmental funding, right?”

“Right,” I nod. I think I saw something about governmental funding in one of the documents I looked at, but I’m not sure. Everything is starting to blur together at this point.

“Well, there’s a donation made in the name of Pitch every month through the years 1992 to 1995. I mean that can’t be a common surname, can it?”

“What?” I jump up. “Who made it? Is there a name?” He’s right, Pitch is not a common surname. It could easily be one of my relatives. My heart starts beating faster.

“No, but there should be receipts somewhere in this box,” Simon pulls a box closer to him and digs his nose in it. I slide down from my chair and sit next to him on the floor while he rummages inside the box.

“Ah, there it is,” he says, holding up a small piece of paper. “Natasha Pitch. Sound familiar?”

My whole world stops.

“Snow, that’s my mother.”

“What? Your mother made donations to the moor?”

I grab the receipt from his hand and look at it, just to be sure. My mother’s name stares back at me from the piece of paper, real as day. Natasha Pitch. A donation of two hundred and fifty pounds made in February 1993.

“There’s got to be more,” Simon says. “I mean, a donation every month for three years? That’s a lot, Baz.”

“Yeah, I know,” I choke out.

He stops rummaging the box to look at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m… it’s just a shock.”

“Do you think we can use this? To convince your father, I mean? Surely, it would affect him to know that your mother cared about this place?”

I look at him. He’s right. My father always,  _ always _ respected my mother’s wishes. This could well be the thing to change his mind – to at least convince him to give us another chance.

“Baz?” Simon is staring at me with concern in his eyes. I grab his face and press a kiss on his cheek.

“You’re fucking brilliant, you know that?” 

SIMON

If there’s an award for how many times one can drive back and forth between my village and London in a single day, Baz and I should certainly get it.

Baz wants to drive there as soon as we collect all the receipts with his mother’s name we could possibly find (we didn’t find  _ all _ of them, but we found enough), but I want to drop by my house first and pick up some clothes. I have no idea how long we’ll be staying in London this time, and I do not want to be left without my toothbrush again. (Penny had to run to the shops to buy me a new one yesterday.)

I stuff some of my clothes in my backpack along with my laptop and toiletries and run back downstairs. Baz is waiting for me by his car.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” I ask again, stopping in front of him.

“Positive. My mother was the only person who could change my father’s mind.”

“And we’re sure it’s really your mother?”

“There’s no other Natasha Pitch in the phonebook.” He nods.

“Alright then, let’s go.”

Baz seems on the edge for the whole ride – I don’t blame him. If I suddenly found out new information about my parents, it would throw me off my game too. I wanted to drive, just to give him a break so that he can be alone with his thoughts, but he knows I haven’t slept all night and he shuts that suggestion down immediately.

Maybe it’s for the better. I was feeling awake with adrenaline before, but after thirty minutes on the road, my eyelids start feeling heavier and heavier. I lean against the window and close my eyes.

When I wake up again, we’re in London already. It’s dark out and Baz’s face is illuminated by the traffic lights. He glances over at me when he sees me wake up.

“You good?” I ask him, trying to stretch out my back the best I can with the seatbelt still on.

“Mhm. You?”

“Yeah.”

I lean back, watching him. He looks tired.

“Do you want me to drive for a bit?” I offer. His eyes shoot over at me and he shakes his head.

“We’re almost there,” he says.

We spend the next few minutes in silence and I feel my mind start buzzing with anxiety again. This is it – our last chance. If this doesn’t go well, then…

“What do we do if this doesn’t work?” I ask as we drive into the garage under the Grimm Real Estates office building. Baz sighs, furrowing his eyebrows.

“We can always sue, but…” his voice trails off.

“But?”

“No, nothing,” he shakes his head, parking the car. “We could do that – it’s an option. But let’s give this a try first.”

BAZ

Simon follows me to my father’s office. It’s late, but I know my father’s still here. I checked his schedule when I was here earlier today.

I’m about to knock when Simon grabs my arm and turns me around so we’re face to face.

“Wait, before we go in… what are you going to say?”

“Well, I’m going to tell him what we found, and then I’m going to ask him to give you a chance to present your appeal. Why, do you have a better idea?”

“No, I just wanted to know,” he says sheepishly. I nod at him and knock on the door.

“Come in!” my father’s voice comes from the inside. His face falls when we enter. “Again?” he asks.

I don’t answer, just sit down on the other side of his desk. Snow follows my suit, looking nervous and jittery.

“Between the years 1992 and 1995, my mother made monthly donations to the Watford Institute for Conservation of Nature, earmarked for Mummer’s moor,” I start coldly. I can see my father’s face change as soon as I mention her, and he lifts his hand to stop me.

“If we’re going to talk about Natasha, I would prefer him not to be in the room,” my father says, nodding his head at Simon.

“I’m sorry,” Simon mumbles, pushing his chair back to stand up, but I reach my hand back and hold him in place.

“His job is on the line. He stays,” I say. Simon sits back down, looking even more jittery than before. My father clenches his jaw.

“Every month, a donation of two hundred and fifty pounds. That comes up to nine thousand pounds over the course of three years,” I continue.

“I don’t believe you,” my father says.

“See for yourself.” I drop the folder with the receipts on his desk. He picks it up and looks through it, his face going whiter as he does so.

“Listen, my mother obviously cared about this place, so I’m asking you, as her son, to give it another chance. Reschedule with the investors and just listen to what Snow has to say,” I say, my voice dropping lower. My father is still looking at the receipts.

“Because she wouldn’t want this. You know she wouldn’t.”

The office is silent for what feels like hours. Then, finally:

“Yes, alright. Your friend can have his presentation tomorrow.”

SIMON

We did it! We have a second chance! I’m so happy I could actually jump for joy – but I don’t since we’re still in the office building.

Baz did it. I don’t understand how he can keep his cool like that when he’s nervous, but it’s amazing. The moment we’re in the car though, his composure breaks, and he starts biting his lip nervously, staring off into space.

“Are you okay?” I ask, for what must be the hundredth time today.

“Hm?” he looks at me like I’ve just snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Are you okay?” I repeat.

“Do you want me to drop you off at your friend’s place?” he asks, completely ignoring my question.

“ _ Baz _ .”

“I’m fine, Snow. I’m just tired.”

He doesn’t sound fine.

“Take me to your place,” I say, buckling my seat belt. He looks at me weird but doesn’t say anything, just starts the car.

Baz’s aunt isn’t here this time. Baz says she’s probably gone out. He still looks unnerved as he leans against the kitchen counter. I cross the kitchen in a few steps and wrap my arms around his waist.

“Thank you for not giving up on this,” I say into his shoulder. His arms slowly come up around me and his breath is warm in my hair.

“You’d do the same for me,” he says, his thumbs rubbing circles in my shoulder blades.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s just stressful, going against my family, that’s all,” he sighs. I hold him tighter.

“I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“It’s not your fault.”

“You’re doing all of this for me.”

“I’m doing this because I think it’s the right thing to do,” he retorts. “Don’t be sorry.”

We stand in silence for a while. I’m still hugging him.

“For the past four years, I’ve been going along with my father’s every wish,” he says, breaking the silence. “He wanted me to continue my schooling in economics, so I did. He offered me an internship at his firm, so I took it. I have four little siblings. I came back home for my first Christmas after my father took me back, and the youngest one didn’t even know who I was,” his voice breaks and he takes a deep breath. “I know I should follow my own heart, but I’m just… terrified of losing that again.”

“Do you think he’ll cut you out after this is all over?” I ask. Stupidly. Baz shrugs.

“I have no idea. That’s the worst part. It might be totally fine. It might not.”

“I wish you didn’t have to go through this.”

“Me neither,” Baz sighs. “But coming to the village and helping you did give me some perspective on everything. I just wish I had more time to think it through.”

“You can always come back, you know that?” I mutter. I’m suddenly hit with the harsh reality that Baz will probably be staying in London after this is all done. I don’t know why I never considered this – things happened so fast and I didn’t even have time to think about him leaving.

“I know,” Baz mumbles. “I also know that you have an important presentation tomorrow so I’m going to make you rehearse it now.” His arms let go of me. I pull back to look at him.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?”

“Yes. Go do your thing, I’ll make us dinner.”

I make a face at him. “You don’t know how to cook.” It’s true. Baz is a hopeless case in the kitchen. I think he’d fuck up cereal if that were possible.

“I’ll order us pizzas,” he says, scowling at me.

“I can make us something,” I offer.

“No. Go practice your presentation.”

BAZ

I don’t know what time it is. I rested my head on Simon’s lap some time ago and he’s been brushing his fingers through my hair absentmindedly while running through his presentation. His hands are so light against my scalp – I never imagined Simon Snow to be this gentle.

I probably won’t be able to return to the village after this is all over, at least not immediately. I won’t have a good reason to return to the moor while still working for my father, and I’m not quite ready to make the decision of whether I want to quit yet.

It’s all so complicated, especially when you add Simon to the equation. I want this – I want to be with him – but even if I stop working at my father’s company, I don’t think there’s a career path for me at his village, and if there’s anything Aunt Fiona taught me, it’s that you should never put your life goals aside for a boy.

Realistically speaking, I don’t think there’s a way for us to exist – and whatever it is that we’re doing right now, it’s still too early to have this conversation.

I close my eyes, focusing on Simon’s hands brushing through my hair and his voice talking about bird migrations. If we’re on borrowed time, I’d like to at least enjoy the moment. If this is all that we get, all that we  _ can _ get, I’ll take it.

“Baz?” I feel a hand on my shoulder, waking me up. My head is still in Simon’s lap. I must’ve dozed off. I sit up, rubbing at my eyes.

“Shall we go to bed?” Simon asks, his voice soft.

“Are you done rehearsing your presentation?”

“Yeah. I might have to make some changes, though. Apparently it lulls people to sleep,” he smirks.

“Shut up,” I nudge him. Then I find his hand among the sofa cushions and give it a squeeze. “Come on. Unless you’d rather sleep on the sofa,” I say.

“Um, no thanks.” Simon gets up and I smirk. Nice to know we’re on the same page. He follows me to my room, still holding my hand.

Simon looks stunning in a grey suit. I’ve lent it to him for the meeting (“Wearing something that isn’t muddy doesn’t make it formal, Snow.”) and now I can’t take my eyes off him. It seems to be bothering him, though, because he keeps loosening his tie.

I can practically feel the nerves rolling off him as I park the car. He’s bouncing his leg and I place my hand on it to steady him.

“You’ll be fine,” I say. He just looks away, biting his lip. “Simon,” I try again. “You  _ know _ what you’re talking about. You know the moor better than anyone. You can do this.”

“Baz, these people-” he starts but I cut him off.

“These people don’t know anything about anything. They’re going to try and throw you off their game because that’s what’s required of them, but they don’t actually know what they’re talking about. Pretend you’re talking to me, okay? Pretend we’re in your house and I’m throwing papers at you every time you say ‘um’.”

That makes him smile. I lean over and press a kiss on his cheek even though we’re in my father’s garage and anyone could see us. I don’t think I actually care about that.

“Okay,” Simon takes a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”

SIMON

My nerves temporarily settle down, then hit me full force again when we enter the meeting room. My tie feels too tight. The room feels too big. Everyone is looking at me.

I try to remember Baz’s words as I settle my papers down at the head of the table.

The people at the meeting don’t seem happy, but I think that’s because Baz’s father called in another meeting. Still, this doesn’t really bode well for me. Dealing with businessmen is bad enough. Dealing with businessmen who are in a bad mood? Torture.

“Mr Snow, are you ready to begin?” Malcolm asks, his voice cold.

“Um, yeah, sure,” I fumble. My mind suddenly goes blank, and I panic because I don’t know what to say. Then I remember Baz telling me to always introduce myself first.

“So, uh, I’m Simon Snow, I work as a conservation ecologist at Mummer’s moor. Uh, my field of research is ornithology, wading birds specifically, but I cover the entirety of the moor too.”

I glance over at Baz, who’s sitting back in his chair, looking bored (he’s trying to blend in, I think). His arm is stretched out in front of him and he’s slowly crumbling a piece of paper in his hand.

I have to bite back a smile.  _ Pretend we’re in your house and I’m throwing papers at you every time you say ‘um’ _ .  _ Say 'um' one more time, Snow, and I’ll throw the whole damn box at you _ .

I focus on the paper in Baz’s hand, and the rest of the room disappears.

BAZ

Simon does wonderfully. He was off to a rough start, but then something switched in him and the rest of the presentation went better than ever before. He did a terrific job explaining the snowball effect of messing with the ecosystem and he didn’t even stumble with presenting the alternatives, even though that actually isn’t his area.

“Any questions?” he asks when he’s done. His voice has gone a bit hoarse from all the talking.

My father and his employees are just staring at him.

“Well, that certainly was a lot,” my father says. “Regarding these alternative projects that you talked about, I would like to receive an email with more details, if that’s possible.”

“I’ll send it to you,” I jump in.

“So you’re not going to build on the moor?” Simon asks, not bothering to contain the excitement in his voice.

“No, Mr Snow, I am not going to build on the moor.”

SIMON

The meeting takes a while longer, but they don’t need me anymore, so I just sit back down and try to contain my relief. I actually want to cry out of joy, but I certainly won’t do that in a room full of businessmen.

Baz’s father and his employees start discussing the alternatives, and I try to follow along but I’m wiped. Fighting capitalism is exhausting.

Finally it’s over, but Malcolm wants to talk to Baz, so I end up waiting by his car. I call Penny in the meantime and update her on everything that happened.

When Baz comes, he pulls me in a tight hug.

“You were amazing, you know that?” he says.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I mutter. It sounds cliché, but it’s true – Baz was the one who worked out all the alternatives and helped me prepare for this. He was the one who even got me a second chance. He never stopped fighting for this.

“No, no, you could.”

“I really couldn’t.”

He opens his mouth to object but I kiss him before he can say anything.

“What did your father want?” I ask when I pull away.

“You think about my father when you’re kissing me?” Baz raises his eyebrows at me. I jab him in the ribs. “Ow! Okay. He wanted me to help him develop one of the alternatives further.”

“So he’s not mad at you?”

“No. He thinks one of the alternatives will actually bring him more profit than the project on the moor, so now he’s all for it. Some things never change,” Baz rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“ _ Are _ you going to help him?” I ask.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

I slip my hand in his and give it a squeeze.

“Do you want to get out of here? Penny said if we come by her place, she’ll make us pancakes. That’s how we celebrated everything when we were still flatmates.”

Baz raises his eyebrows at me and smiles, like this information amuses him very much.

“Alright then, Snow. Let’s go have some pancakes.”

Only when we’re at Penny’s flat do I begin to realize things are still far from over. Yes, the moor is saved, but there’s still the Davy issue. I’m realizing I should probably report him. I mean, his behaviour goes against the sole purpose of the Institute! I wonder how many protected areas have been lost due to his corruption.

And if it’s a systemic issue, if there are people in higher positions enabling Davy to do this, then it’s even more important that I tell someone about it. But who do I even tell? I don’t know how deep this corruption runs or who to trust with this.

And Davy isn’t  _ just _ my mentor. He’s the one who took me under his wing when I was still an undergrad. He made sure to let me know about every birding expedition, and he helped me get my job at the Watford Institute. In a way, I feel slightly guilty for even  _ thinking  _ about it, even though the events from two days ago made me lose all my respect for him.

No. I absolutely  _ must _ tell someone. Davy can’t be allowed to continue doing this.

“Alright Snow?” Baz asks, sitting down on Penny’s sofa next to me.

“Fine,” I smile.

“So, I did some googling,” he starts.

“Oh no.”

“Because you said you specialise in wading birds, right?”

“Yes,” I nod.

“So, does that mean you’re an expert on flamingos?” he asks with his eyebrows raised, an amused expression playing on his face. It makes me laugh. Really laugh. Baz looks like he just won the lottery.

“I  _ wish _ I was an expert in flamingos,” I say. Baz feigns a shocked expression.

“Betraying your beloved curlews for this?”

“Okay, no, I take it back. Curlews are cooler,” I smile. Then I remember we just successfully saved one of the more important curlew breeding habitats, and I smile even wider.

“Are you talking about birds again?” Penny asks, coming into the living room. She’s holding a carton of milk in her hand (she was out so she had to run to the shop to get it).

“Penny is afraid of birds,” I explain to Baz. He raises his eyebrows at her, then at me.

“And Simon had the whole animal kingdom available and he had to go with birds,” Penny retaliates. I know she’s not serious – it’s an inside joke between us.

“I studied other animals as well!” I object.

“Hm, let’s see; bats, centipedes, bees… all equally terrible.”

“I’m sorry, what’s wrong with bees?” Baz jumps in.

“He’s allergic to them!”

I fall back on the sofa, laughing.

“Life threatening allergies aren’t funny, Snow. Isn’t that something I was supposed to know about?” Baz turns to me.

“Yeah, like a bee’s gonna sting me in the middle of November. And I’m not  _ that _ allergic. Only a little bit.”

“He got stung once and his hand swelled up to the size of a balloon,” Penny shakes her head. “I had to tie his shoes for him for a whole week.”

“It was the week I learned to eat with my non-dominant hand,” I add proudly. Baz is just looking back and forth between us like he’s unsure how to process all this information.

“I’ll keep it in mind to keep you away from bees and you away from birds,” Baz says, turning to each of us as he speaks. Then he sighs and shakes his head. “This is starting to sound too much like The Talk. I was promised pancakes.”

“Oh, right!” Penny turns on her heel and rushes to the kitchen.

“I should probably help her,” I say, getting up. Baz puts his hand on his knee, holding me down for a moment.

“Seriously, you looked deep in thought before. Is everything alright?” he asks.

“Yeah, I was just… thinking about Davy. I should probably report him, but I don’t know who to turn to,” I sigh.

“Try Miss Possibelf,” Baz suggests. I nod.

“I was thinking about her too.”

“But tomorrow, okay? These past few days have already been stressful enough. You deserve a break,” he says. I smile at him.

“You too.”

He gives my leg a squeeze. “Now go make me pancakes, you nightmare.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I feel like this is slightly anti-climactic? Yes. Will I change it? No.  
> Anyway, this is it, technically, but you know me (actually you don't, this is my first fic here), I can't resist an epilogue, so expect that shortly. I hope you have good dental insurance, though, because the fluff is going to be tooth-rotting. 
> 
> Thank you so so much for all your kind comments and I'll see you in the last one!  
> [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire) again, like I don't put it in every chapter


	16. Chapter 16/Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arguably the worst part about dating Simon Snow is his alarm clock. I hate the damn thing. If I could, I’d take it out on the moor and drown it in a bog, but then Snow himself would probably drown me for littering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys, the last chapter! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it
> 
> As always, thank you so, so much [@Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre) for beta reading this and for all your help! This fic would not be the same without you!

SIMON

Things happened so fast after that. I went to the Institute the next day and reported Davy. He got fired, along with some other people, and there was a big investigation into the matter. The Watford Institute got completely turned around after that: new head of the Institute, new head of ornithology, a new working plan for the moor, new everything.

We’ve had meetings ever since the start of December. Rhys and Gareth wanted me to become the head of ornithology, but I turned it down. I wasn’t ready – I don’t even have a PhD.

I thought I’d have to scrap my dissertation after Davy got fired, but Miss Possibelf, the new head of ornithology, suggested I continue under her mentorship. Not that I had much time for my dissertation anyway – not with everything that’s been going on at the Institute. I’ve been staying in London, either with Baz or with Penny for the better part of December and only got back home last week.

Baz didn’t come with me – he’s been swamped with work too, helping his father plan the alternative project that ended up saving the moor. All of that is still going on – I think we’re dating, but neither of us has brought it up yet. I suppose we’re both just waiting for our lives to calm down a bit before we have that conversation. We’re going to have to have it soon though; it was easy this past month, because I was staying in London and we could see each other often, but now I’m back home and we have to figure out where we want to go with this.

I don’t want to push him, though. Baz still needs to sort out what he wants to do with his life, and that’s a decision he has to make on his own.

I haven’t seen him in over a week, and it’s ridiculous, but I miss him. My house seems oddly empty without him occupying my sofa or making the bathroom smell like cedar and bergamot. I try to distract myself with work instead – despite it being the dead of winter, there are still plenty of things left to do on the moor, especially now that we have a new working plan for it.

Come think of it, the holidays are actually so welcome right now. I haven’t had a day to relax in over a month and a half. I need a break. And Baz said he’d come by on Boxing Day and stay until New Year’s so I’ll finally see him again.

I just hope he _can_ come because with the way it’s been snowing these past few days, the roads are really terrible. Especially today, it’s hell – and so many people are leaving to be with their families on Christmas Eve.

I’m not going anywhere. I’m camped out on the sofa, eating scones and reading a book about herons that Penny got me for Christmas. Ebb invited me to come visit her family, but the past few weeks have left me so exhausted that the thought of more socialising makes me want to hide in bed and sleep for the next ten years. Still, she said she might drop by before leaving to bring me some food. (Bless Ebb.)

The doorbell rings and I startle. That must be Ebb, or maybe the carollers. I put my book aside, uncover my blanket and shuffle to the front door.

It’s not Ebb, or the carollers. It’s Baz.

He’s standing at my front door, wearing my hat (he never returned it after Bonfire Night) and a long, black coat. He’s got snowflakes sticking to his eyelashes and his cheeks are flushed red with the cold.

It’s so good to see him. It’s always good to see him.

He just stares at me for a few seconds and I end up being the one to break the distance between us. His lips are cold and his coat is wet with snowflakes and I pull him into the house while still kissing him.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be home…” Baz says once we break apart.

“I’m home,” I cut him off. He smiles faintly. “Why are you here? I thought you said you weren’t coming until Boxing Day.”

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

“About?” I ask, suddenly nervous. But Baz is smiling so I decide he’s not here to break up with me. (Can you even break up with someone who’s not officially your boyfriend?)

“In a moment,” he says, stepping forward to take off his coat.

“Do you want tea?” I offer. I don’t usually drink tea this late, but Baz loves it, and he seems cold.

“Tea would be nice.”

I fix us two cups of tea (herbal for me) and bring them to the winter garden. Baz has already gotten himself settled there, sitting on the sofa and looking at the heron book that I left on the coffee table. He’s wearing jeans and a thick, green jumper and seeing him here makes me so happy. It’s a familiar sight.

I set the tea down on the coffee table and sit down next to him.

“What did you want to talk about?” I ask.

“I quit my job.”

“What? When?” This comes as a shock to me – a good kind of shock. I knew Baz wasn’t happy working at his father’s company, but he kept saying he had too many loose ends he needs to sort out before he can make a decision about it.

“Today. We were done with working out the details for the Southampton project, so I just told him I won’t be coming back after the holidays.”

“Did he take it okay?”

“Surprisingly, yeah. I mean, I did have a talk with him beforehand about how I’m not sure this is what I want to do with my life so I didn’t catch him completely off guard, but still, he was actually supportive. I think he had a bit of a change of heart after this whole moor situation,” Baz says, smiling a little.

“That’s great,” I smile back at him. “What made you change your mind?”

“Some ornithologist told me I have a choice in life.” He’s smiling properly now, but he still looks like he’s trying not to.

“Sounds like a wise man,” I say. Baz barks out a laugh.

“He’s a bit of an idiot, really.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t appreciate you telling him that.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Baz agrees. He’s still smiling – it’s good to see him like this; smiling softly, hands wrapped around his tea, sitting cross-legged on my sofa.

“So, what did you choose?” I ask, turning so that I’m facing him.

“I was thinking about teaching. I have my dissertation defence in March and if all goes well, I’m going to try and get a job as a professor afterwards,” he says.

“Really? That’s great!” I start, but Baz doesn’t let me finish.

“And I choose him,” he says. “The ornithologist. If he’ll have me.”

I just stare at him, trying to process his words, and he’s staring back at me, looking nervous.

“Simon, I-” he starts again, but I don’t let him finish, because the next moment, my lips are on his. He tastes like tea and he hums happily as I pry his lips open with mine, his hands coming up on my hips.

It’s so good.

I can’t count how many times I’ve thought about asking him to be my boyfriend in the past month and a half. A few times I nearly ended up calling him over this question, but I wanted to do it in person.

Turns out, he beat me to it.

We’re both slightly out of breath when we break apart, our foreheads still pressed together. Then he leans forward and presses another quick kiss to my lips, and I smile. He always needs to have the last word, the tosser.

“So I’m guessing that’s a yes?” he asks, echoing the words I said on the night I kissed him. I laugh and collapse against his chest.

“That’s a yes,” I confirm. He presses another kiss on my forehead and one of his hands comes up to stroke my hair. I wrap my arms around his chest, and for a few minutes, the only sound is our breathing. Then Baz speaks again.

“Bit rude, you know?”

I look up at him and our eyes meet. He’s smiling again. “What is?” I ask.

“That you interrupted me like this. I had a whole speech planned. I rehearsed it in my car.”

I laugh. “Did you really?”

“Yes. But then _someone_ interrupted me,” Baz laments. He’s being overdramatic just because he can. Typical. (It’s kind of cute when he does that but I’d never let him know.)

“I’m sorry, would you prefer that I didn’t kiss you?” 

“No, no,” he shakes his head and I can feel his hair brushing against my forehead. “Please kiss me.”

“So needy,” I comment.

“I meant now, Snow.”

I laugh and lean up to press a quick kiss on his lips. “ _So_ needy,” I repeat. “What were you going to say?”

“In my speech?”

“Yeah?”

“That I’m sorry I didn’t do this sooner, and that all those weeks I spent here really gave me some perspective on everything. And I want to thank you, because you made me believe I have a choice and because you opened up your doors to me and taught me about the curlews and the starlings and told me terrible facts about worms that bite.”

I chuckle a bit at that and he kisses my forehead briefly before continuing.

“I also wanted to tell you that you’re a nightmare and a mess and I adore you,” he says softly, and my heart flutters at his words.

“Baz…” I start, but he shakes his head as if to say _I’m not finished yet_.

“I’m sorry life has been in our way for the past month, and realistically speaking, it’s probably going to keep getting in our way, but I’m willing to find ways around it. I want this, Simon. I want to hold you in my arms and listen to you talk just about anything, and I want to take you out on dates and kiss you and wake up next to you, even if you do wake up at five in the morning, and what I’m trying to say is that I want to be your boyfriend. But only if that’s what you want too.”

I don’t answer him immediately. Instead, I press another long kiss on his lips. I can feel his muscles relaxing underneath me.

“I do, Baz. You know I do.”

BAZ

Arguably the worst part about dating Simon Snow is his alarm clock. I hate the damn thing. If I could, I’d take it out on the moor and drown it in a bog, but then Snow himself would probably drown _me_ for littering. So instead, I had to opt for coexisting with the thing.

In retrospect, it’s a small price to pay for getting to sleep next to him nearly every night now. I still groan every time the clock screams its horrible melody at 5 am, but now I’ve mostly been able to fall back asleep after Simon presses another quick kiss on my lips or cheek before getting out of bed to go do patrols on the moor.

This morning, however, it’s more than just one kiss. He wraps himself around me, pressing kisses on my cheek and neck.

“Happy birthday, love,” he mutters in between kisses.

“Simon, I love you, but I’m still half asleep,” I mumble, even though he just pressed a kiss behind my ear, and I’m definitely awake now. I open my eyes and there he is with his bed hair and his freckles, beautiful as always.

“Sure you are,” he smiles, pressing another kiss on my neck.

“I hate you,” I sigh, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him closer.

“You just said you love me,” he objects, his lips still busying themselves on my neck.

“Those two statements can coexist,” I say angling my head backwards to give him more access. “Don’t you have patrols to do?” I ask as his hands reach up under my shirt.

“It’s your birthday, the patrols can wait for a bit. If you want to?” he pauses, raising his eyebrows at me.

I never imagined my 26th birthday to start like this; waking up at five in the morning (involuntarily) in the arms of the boy I love (definitely voluntarily), not having to worry about whether or not I’m fucking my life up. To have my only worry be the nightmare who’s currently hanging above me, morning breath and everything, still waiting for my answer.

“The patrols can definitely wait,” I say, reaching up for his face.

I end up coming to the moor with him because I know how happy it makes him when I tag along. We also end up being more than a bit late – the sun is already fully out.

I’m driving – I know the way by now, and it’s just better that way. Driving with Snow is a bit of a nightmare sometimes. It’s not that he’s a bad driver, but he sometimes gets too distracted by birds flying around to look at the road, so now, whenever we’re going somewhere together, I usually take over the driving and let him be a nerd in the passenger seat.

He’s been especially distracted lately, with the spring migrations starting. He’s practically always staring at the sky. I don’t mind – it gives me more space to look at him. Sometimes he catches me and calls me a sap, but he always blushes like an idiot and takes my hand afterwards. We’re almost always holding hands. We have gotten some weird looks here in the village, but most people here seem to love Simon too much to care.

I stay here most of the time now, finishing up my dissertation, doing online classes in literature and working through lecture plans of the subject I’ll be teaching next year. Technically, the job isn’t mine _yet_ , but the people at University of Manchester said it’s practically mine. I just have to finish up my dissertation so that I have the credentials and then I can start working there next semester. It’s also more convenient; Manchester is only a forty-five minute drive away from where Simon lives.

I used to say I’d be staked before I left London, but I realized it would be better if I left. Not because of Simon – god knows, we’d probably work out the distance – but because of me.

Everything about my future has been centred around London, around staying to work at my father’s company, but if I wanted to leave all of that behind, I had to leave London. I had to do this one thing that completely terrified me, so that I could feel like I was in control of my life again.

I mean, I haven’t left London _completely_. I’m going there just this weekend, to celebrate my birthday with Dev and Niall (who finally started dating, thank fuck for that) and Fiona. But there’s no future for me there, at least not the one I want.

The future I want is here—in this village, in Manchester, and hopefully, in the arms of a certain ornithologist.

That much I’m certain of.

“Pull over,” Simon instructs me. We stop on one of the hilltops and step out of the car.

It’s still cold, but it’s getting warmer by the day. The first flowers are budding underneath my feet. I’m looking down. Simon is looking up.

“Look at that,” he says and I can hear the smile in his voice. I step closer to him, turning my attention to the piece of sky he’s pointing at.

I don’t need him to tell me what I’m looking at. I recognize them as well as he does by now.

His hand finds mine and he gives it a squeeze.

The curlews are returning back to the moor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Thank you to everyone who's read this fic and given it love, your support seriously means so much to me and I'm really happy that you enjoyed it! I have some unfinished business with the links so here we go:
> 
> Firstly, Gampyre made this [amazing art](https://gampyre.tumblr.com/post/627884616208007168/arrival-of-the-birds) of Simon holding a curlew based on the picture he has in his bedroom in Chapter 4. I think I forgot to link this before, so here it is and give it some love because it's seriously amazing! 
> 
> Secondly, something I haven't mentioned but probably should have: this fic is titled after [this song/piece](https://open.spotify.com/track/0Gr2XQOIMaaUH86iOrWGur?si=wJYT7ciqSPia5pcWY3rgAA) by The Cinematic Orchestra
> 
> And here's [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vampire-named-gampire) in case you want to see any WIP Wednesdays and shit like that, I do have another major WIP that I'm going to start posting as soon as it's finished (although it's pretty massive so it's probably gonna take a while) 
> 
> Okay, I'm going to stop talking now. Again, thank you so, so much to everyone who's read this fic!


End file.
